


Three-Point Turn

by SC182



Series: Attrition Verse [1]
Category: 2 Fast 2 Furious (2003), Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/SC182
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: No one knows just how much happens between points A and B. This is a story about a few of these events. </p>
<p>Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein. The characters of Brian O'Conner, Dominic Toretto and Carter Verone as well as any supporting characters are the property of their creators and Universal Pictures. Any deviation (or deviant behavior) from the originals, however, is mine</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted originally in April 2010.
> 
> A/N: This is essentially a ‘what if’ story that takes place after the first movie with bits and pieces of the other films tossed in for filler. Brian gets a back story ihere (finally). Bits of Spanish are thrown in here and there. Lots of names and references to local places in Miami. Abuse of pictures and slang. Quote from the Great Gatsby. Thanks to icesamzero for the beta and write_in_red for the postcards! Translations at the end of fic.

Part One

  
**Now**  
  
He’s blonder now, far away from the gold-blond given to him by birth. His hair rebels, turning a near white fire Justin Timberlake boy band shade of bright.  
  
When the sun falls through the curtains, cutting slashes of light across his face, Brian rises from bed. Always doing so without jostling his still sleeping partner.  
  
He goes from wilted to upright the moment he sits up on the edge of the bed. His hands rest at his sides with shoulders hunched up as the cement of sleep slips out of his limbs. The sun shines radiantly, marigold flashes of color bursting into his face as the floor length verticals oscillate with each silent breath of the AC.  
  
Some say that having everything at one’s fingertips can be boring. But it isn’t. As soon as he recognizes this pattern, the one that makes his new life run so seamless, a chafing should have started; but he has grown accustomed to this life, to his partner, and all the things he never believed he could ever have.  
  
For example: his bed partner remains still, snoring lightly, almost orderly on the other side of the bed. Where Brian can be considered loose and reckless, almost chaotic in his sleep, his partner is all order and precision, remaining sprawled across the spot he has designated as his.  
  
Brian pads across the plush carpet, his toes sinking in deeply, to the master bath to piss, change into his swim trucks and grab a towel before going downstairs to swim. He swims until a few minutes to eight and by then the sun scorches his skin beneath the water. Later, he heads inside to make coffee, despite that being the job of the kitchen staff; he still prefers to make his own. Something about doing it makes him feel better and less lazy.  
  
Today, he doesn’t have to shave.  
  
The shower features the impressive setup that he’s only seen before in movies and music videos. The ones where the main character and their love interest make sweet soapy love or have unrealistically good sex against the slippery and sudsy walls. He has been there, done that, and almost sprained his ankle in the process. He has been learning through a grudgingly long series of trials and errors that it is best to keep things low maintenance when dealing with frictionless surfaces.  
  
A walled-in shower with a panorama of shower heads is exactly what is needed to start off the day. It is almost large enough to swim in. He bends his head low, allowing the steaming water to pour down the valley of his shoulder blades and lets his mind shift into blessed tranquility.  
  
He really shouldn’t be so pissy about their apparent need to hire another driver but he is. These days there aren’t many titles that can be applied to him, but driver is always a constant.  
  
Caution and precaution—the words that have come to be drilled into his head since he started working for this unique enterprise. They represent the direction his life has been headed in since leaving L.A. and coming to Miami gives new definition to ‘taking your work home with you.’ It’s not the fact that they’re arguing about the driver, though they rarely ever argue; it’s feeling like he’s in limbo. In this equation, he really isn’t the Sundance Kid and his partner certainly isn’t Butch Cassidy, in spite of his heaping stacks of spare charisma.  
  
As he steps out of the shower and begins to dry off with an overly plush towel, Brian wonders what’s next for them. Moving on is easier said than done. Much easier. But he doesn’t have any inclination to do that.  
  
He wipes the fog from the mirror. His sharp eyes gauge his hair, and an on the spot decision is made against getting a haircut, but soon he’ll have to. His hair is approaching that almost too-curly stage, where the curls wind up tight and silently entice others to touch them; combined with the bleaching from the sun, nature isn’t doing him any real favors.  
  
He pulls one such curl between his fingers. Pulls it parallel to the bridge of his nose and has to go cross-eyed to see it. “Don’t even think about it, goldilocks.” A hand joins his in his hair and the other slips over his hip before a sharp male chin hooks over his shoulder.  
  
“Maybe I should,” Brian says.  
  
His partner tightens his grip and asks in a sexy timbre, “What would I grab onto then?” The fingers drumming lightly against his hip are a pleasant distraction. They stare at each other through the clearing surface of the mirror, their eyes locking together across the infinitely reflected universes before them. “You’re mad,” he says with the same fascination that a scientist has for a new specimen under observation.  
  
Brian declines outwardly with a shake of his head. “No, I’m not.” Pissed is more like it, if he’s being honest with himself.  
  
A quizzical sound passes along Brian’s ear before both hands on him are wrapped around his waist and the chin over his shoulder hooks him tighter, bringing them closer. They’re flush together now, back to front, legs twined like living ropes and the position is comfortable. “You’ll see. It will work out better this way.” Brian shivers as the slow drag of the nose against the base of his neck ignites a flame down his spine. “You might be mad now, O’Connor, but my daddy used to say…. You don’t put your best horse out to till the field.”  
  
It’s a strange compliment, but one that Brian understands. Sometimes speaking clearly is the only thing needed. “Talking about being careful is all you do. Just seems like a fundamental mistake to bring someone in who has no stake in things.” Nothing is harder than taking the cop out of his voice when he gets mad. Looking for motive, reason, and corroborating evidence have been etched across his brain. His mind has willfully maintained the techniques and stark lines of procedure, but the strict moral fiber of those behind the honest blue line flies out the window the moment he tosses his badge on Tanner’s desk.  
  
In the mirror, a quirked dark brow and a razor-sharp smirk reflect back at Brian. Devastating, addictive, dangerous. Of course, his partner knows the hypnotic appeal of his looks, and better yet his voice. “I love it when you speak cop.” He relaxes his hold over Brian before explaining further. “That’s why you get someone who has no issues about cutting and run,” he snaps his fingers in the air, “in and out,” for emphasis.  
  
Brian shrugs.  
  
Clearly unimpressed by Brian’s nonchalance, he says again, “If any of these guys are as good as their reputations say, then we’ll all walk away satisfied.” He pauses and goes back to carding his fingers through Brian’s hair.  
  
Even if all the attention makes Brian feel like a big cat, he still enjoys it. “’S hot down here, in more ways than one, and I don’t want us to get burned.” Thoughts solidify into plans and lead Brain to think about emergency exit strategies.  
  
“Don’t worry, Dorado.” The endearment is punctuated by a kiss. “Run smooth, run steady, they say.” Blue eyes watch them tangle in the mirror. “Don’t worry about the heat. We’re like diamonds: we won’t melt,” he says while dragging his lips over Brian’s neck, “won’t even break a sweat.”  
  
Their bodies angle together, another goal in mind. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Brian doesn’t mind the bodily manipulation; he often tacitly encourages it. “I just showered.” His protest is weak, even to his ears.  
  
The hands across his shoulders don’t move, nor does the hardness pressing into his back. “So we could run the damn thing all day and there’d still be hot water.” Brian can argue with him here, just for pettiness sake, but seeing that this will be the last time they’re free for a while he shuts his mouth.  
  
Brian tilts his head, allowing lips to trail up the long tendon of his neck to his ear. “You’ll see, dorado. Just wait. It’s almost done.”  
  
“I hope so, Carter.” Brian squeezes him back. “I hope so.”

 

 

* * *

  



	2. Two

**Then**  
  
Things go to hell about five minutes after Dom drives off into the sunset. The collective swarm of the local LAPD and FBI descend upon the scene and whisk him away. Secluded behind the semi-ridiculously transparent mirror in the interrogation room, his ass is proverbially chewed on and out by Bilkins like it has the savory salty aftertaste of barbeque flavored beef jerky.  
  
IAD hits him hard, battering him with questions long enough that the summer sun sets and is rising again as Brian walks out of the precinct. He has the collective disapproval of the remaining FBI liaisons, Tanner, and the day’s first shift glowering at him as he leaves.  
  
Bilkins will try to get him canned or worse for sure. Tanner, who’s been there since Brian got picked up, is waiting for him by his car. If the arms folded over his chest and the tightness of his posture don’t tell Brian how much shit he’s in, then the constant chewing of his upper lip, his moustache bristling like a goat chewing a weed, supplies the rest of the evidence that he is in deep shit.  
  
Brian stops short and Tanner steps away from his car. The lines around his eyes speak of being more than tired, weary and strained. “You alright, O’Conner?”  
  
Back to formality it is. “Yes, sir,” Brian answers stiffly.  
  
Tanner slides his hands beneath his coat to rest over his slightly paunchy hips. Though Brian stares at him, his mentor’s eyes, hidden behind smudged lenses, look everywhere else. That’s a purposeful dig. The action, so small, brings a great sting of pain. Brian tries hard not to wince.  
  
With his gaze now on his shoes, Tanner snorts softly and laughs, almost bitterly under his breath. “This is a fine mess you got yourself into.”  
  
A mess indeed. A fine one if it could ever be called such. “Things happen, sir.”  
  
Now Tanner looks at him, shaking his head in a classic sign of paternal disapproval. “Sure, and the sister still had nothing to do with it,” Tanner says with absolute sarcasm. “I don’t know if you can save yourself from this mess, because I’ll tell you,” he says with another shake of his head, “this is a supreme clusterfuck and someone has to go down for it and I hope it’s not you, kid. Even if I can already see Bilkins chomping at the bit to nail someone’s ass to the wall, I just hope it won’t be yours.”  
  
A hand sweeps over Tanner’s forehead and navigates to the corners. It goes to work massaging away a headache that Brian’s situation has ultimately caused. Brian chooses silence as his option for now. To take the route of apologizing implies guilt. To defend himself too hard may make it seem like he has something to hide. Keep silent and let them talk for him, he decides, because he has little left to say. He can’t let them know that he let Dom go on purpose, even if they think he did.  
  
“My advice,” Tanner finally holds Brian’s stare and glares moderately back at him. “Don’t go see Mia Toretto and watch your back. You should also think about calling the union rep and a lawyer, if things look like they’re going south.” That’s Tanner’s heartfelt advice.  
  
“Of course, sir,” Brian says.  
  
Tanner walks away then, takes long strides towards the precinct and far from the mess that Brian has created. With the early morning sun burning his eyes, it’s easy to think that sudden quietness of his world isn’t due to the wreck and ruins Brian finds himself standing in.  
  
The brass, IAD, and the Feds want him back that afternoon. They play with him in their own way, trying to trip him up at first and use threats at other times. For two weeks, he lives in limbo inside his apartment or down at the beach. Administrative suspension is what his superiors called it, while he waits for IAD to decide if he’ll be brought up on charges. He’s got more enemies right now than friends—way more. The burden of forced isolation and the natural paranoia that starts to set in has him hoping that someone will come to a decision soon.  
  
The day his suspension is up, Officer Brian O’Connor stands inside the department conference room with two investigators from IAD, his union rep, Tanner, and his lieutenant. IAD can’t bring him up on charges, because there’s little evidence other than hearsay that could implicate him in the commission of a crime. That does not mean that his record will remain clean. He’s on administrative probation and the fast track to his detective shield might as well be on Mars at this point.  
  
Everyone in the room knows he’ll be blackballed for the rest of his career as a cop, and worst of all is how the name rat will be the first badge his peers see. And that in itself isn’t a risk he’s willing to take.  
  
So Brian O’Connor, dressed in his official black uniform, walks out of the station, surrounded by the quiet resentment of his coworkers and superiors. He quits the same day.  
**  
He lives in a part of unincorporated L.A. The distinguishing factor is that everyone here works. Black, White, Latino, Asian, gay, and straight—everyone wakes up with the intention of working hard for their next dollar and making what they will of the American Dream. It’s the last frontier in L.A. without the addition of overpriced condominiums and star stalkers.  
  
He takes one last sweep of the old apartment he’s rented from Mrs. Pho since he came out to L.A. The first time his painfully petite and brutally honest landlady laid eyes on him, she scrutinized him so hard, eyeballing him up and down as she stalked around him in her straw sunhat and hot pink-bordering on Pepto Bismo outfit with a mild frown on her face.  
  
She finished her assessment and walked inside her house. “You here to be movie star?” She asked in heavily accented English.  
  
Smiling cautiously back, he said, “No, cop actually.”  
  
The face she pulled says surprise and moderate disapproval. “You get unit twelve, fourth floor. Rent’s due first of every month and you tell me if you have need for repairs.”  
  
They went through the apartment together and it was a steal for seven hundred bucks. It came with semi-new appliances and the kind of space that potential renters would actually commit murder for. He learned that during one his firsts arrests.  
  
Brian handed her his security deposit and first month’s rent and she gave him the key. Mrs. Pho smiled up at him before she left. “I think you make better actor.” It’s the sort of pronouncement that is rarely forgotten and often echoes in his thoughts when he has late nights on the job.  
  
Packing takes no time, really. He takes the clothes that only half- fill his closet and dresser, the meager CDs and DVDs he’s accumulated over a couple years, the only pictures he has, and the one book he brought with him when he moves to L.A. His tools get plenty of space in the trunk, though he can’t take all of them.  
  
What’s sacrificed is his bed, the one real luxury he’s got, a nice firm king; a couch that’s a little worse for wear, his TV, and miscellaneous this and that. Mrs. Pho gives him a good deal for all that he leaves behind. Though she’s ticked that he’s leaving in the first place.  
  
Mrs. Pho clearly worked having a cop in her building to her benefit. In the seven years he’d lived in the building, Brian had helped her evict eleven tenants, moved in dozens more, and repaired countless little things around the building after she found he was competent in using a screwdriver, a hammer, and a pair of pliers. She gave him a break on the rent and left him dinner the nights when he worked the late shift. Never once did she try to throw a granddaughter his way, because she said, again with brutal honesty, that her granddaughter was “a fat cow” and her grandson was “an idiot who thinks he can sing instead of be a doctor”.  
  
She was the last person he talked to in L.A. His apartment gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until it winks out like stars do once the sun rises. He hops on Interstate 5 to find Interstate10, which looms ahead giving him a final exit call.  
  
Mia is the final push. She hangs up the first few times he calls and blocks his number shortly after. Brian owes it to her and Dom to be there for her. Jesse’s dead and Vince has been put through the meat grinder. Lucky for him, with no trucker there’s no case. Leon and Letty are off the grid and Dom is…M.I.A. by Brian’s actions alone.  
  
The last time he visited Mia, she was cleaning up after the funeral, draped in a black dress with equally dark eyes and shoulders too stiff from carrying her entire family’s burden. He tried to talk to her, give her a hand, but Mia waved him off finally. Having had it with the chivalry of Former Officer Brian O’Conner.  
  
The way her obsidian dark eyes penetrated right through him and reached into his core, he thought “I could have loved you,” which was the truth; but then _not as much as Dom though_ could be certified as gospel.  
  
Mia knew. Said it herself that Dom is like gravity and everyone else around him is still caught up in his pull, even if far, far away. “Mia…” he began, as he went in for one last try.  
  
“Go home, Brian.” She unfolded her arms over her chest and regarded him with something other than anger. Something more like sympathy. “Go back to your life and I’ll try to go back to mine.”  
  
Mia walked across the porch, pulled the screen door back, and paused before going back inside. “Brian—”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, still caught been the purgatory of the stairs, leading up to the house.  
  
Her eyes shone defiantly, because she was too strong to allow tears to rise. “You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” Mia’s voice carried loud enough for him to hear, strong enough to pierce his heart like a stake.  
  
Dom could hurt with fists, pummel a man into nothing just by sheer strength alone; Mia’s words blew him away the same as a shotgun levered on her shoulder might. He felt unraveled. When he turned away, he almost expected to see pieces of himself splayed out on the lawn.  
  
The memory fades and he merges onto the interstate. Going east is like escaping L.A. Finally loosening the tenterhooks it had stuck in him. Brian thinks of Mia and laughs to himself, a truly hollow sound as it rises over the Journey CD in the dash.  
  
So much for saving grace.  
  
L.A., he thinks without the starry-eyed wonder that led him there. _It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me._  
  
Crossing the border back to Arizona is like waking up from a dream. The hazy cloudiness lingers behind in California, sluggish to shake off like a strong batch of opiates, mixing with the smog and humidity and Arizona offers the first chance to breathe he’s had in years.

 

* * *

  
  
Well past the point where Journey encourages him to Don’t Stop Believin’, he takes an exit that leads to a desolate route that flows into an even lonelier strip of land. The main drag of Prosperity, Arizona could be more aptly titled Boulevard of Broken Dreams.  
  
Prosperity, Arizona is the type of place founded before the War in Europe made its way to the shores of America. Good old war profiteers and spectators found some of the last untapped veins since the gold rush and swarmed down on the area and established the city limits just in time for the Japanese to bomb Pearl Harbor and Johnny to go marching off to war. His mother’s parents came here from Boston. They traded living off a steel worker’s salary in Boston for having a house with a desert green yard and manufactured for the war effort.  
  
Prosperity was supposed to be the Detroit of the Southwest. The three big wars of the last century sustained the town. Then the mines closed and the military moved out, taking most of the jobs with them. The factories closed their doors too, when terms like ‘cost effective’ and ‘resource optimization’ were born and then jobs began to be shipped overseas. His grandfather died the way all men that drank and smoked too much and liked to raise hell tended to do. Late at night before another shift could start.  
  
Most of the Mom and Pop stores are gone, except for Miller’s Grocery and a few shops and restaurants along the streets that split off the main drag. Even dead and almost deserted, it still has the idyllic charm of old and Main Street is subdued and bright despite the absence of those that could bring it back to life.  
  
The Wal-Mart sits like a hulking beast, high above the rooftops of the elementary school and the Prosperity Health Practice, where much of the town goes to be born and die. Even here, it’s crowded and it takes him way too long to buy what he needs. In the store less than thirty minutes and he sees about ten people with whom he went to school; all in various stages of working for Wal-Mart, dragging their screaming kids through the store, or meandering because there’s nothing else to do. These are the lucky ones that graduated. Brian skipped out at sixteen, when he was fortunately locked up in juvie and forced to get his GED. These are the people that kept their roots in Prosperity and from the looks of their prematurely lined faces, the stretch marks on pregnant bellies, and the pot round guts pressing against framed leather belts, Brian is lucky that he’s always been a bit flighty.  
  
He walks out of the store with two bouquets—lilies and daisies or approximations of them. His Lancer, beat up as it may seem, takes a smooth path over the battered and worn road over to Religious Row, as the kids called it. The street where all the faiths in Prosperity are represented or the one place in the world where Protestants and Catholics sit side by side without murdering each other.  
  
Behind the churches, fenced in and blanketed in natural Technicolor green grass is Eternal Plains, the home of two generations of O’Conner’s. His mother was the homecoming queen, prom queen, the apple of her parents’ eye. She came of age at the dawn of the Aquarius and ran wild and fast, just like him, and met a man with a smile like sunshine and shoulders like mountains—her words, and he could have been a soldier, a trucker, a guy headed west to make it in Hollywood, but no one was certain. Whoever this mystery man was, he was the lucky recipient of the title of father to Maggie O’Conner’s bastard son.  
  
Maggie, the wild child, had to work her way up from waitressing to career secretary to support herself and the baby on her hip, because mystery man didn’t stick around long enough to sign the birth certificate.  
  
Brian divides the lilies between his mother and grandmother. Maggie O’Conner’s slate- hued gravestone says, “A Good Mother.” A good mother? A great mother for what she could give him. Brian had both his mother and grandmother until he’s ten when his grandmother took sick and died of a bad bout of pneumonia. He had his mother for seventeen years and gave her grief for the last three. In and out of boot camp and juvie with Rome.  
  
The one thing that kept him from fishtailing was the love of speed and the hopeful spark in his mother’s blue eyes that prayed it would be his last time away from her. A lifetime of cigarettes and chain smoking in times of worry over his stupid mistakes and she ended up with breast cancer with too little time to treat it.  
  
He went cold turkey on his habitual flirtation with smoking after his mother died. At seventeen, he realized he was alone for the first time.  
  
The lilies lie over the base of each headstone. He presses a kiss to his fingers and lays them over the stone. “Love you, Ma,” he says and after rising to his feet, Brian walks away, knowing he’ll never come back here. This is the final goodbye to his mother and to his life and the dreams of a seventeen-year-old boy living in the Middle of Nowhere, Arizona.  
  
Another stop and he’ll be like a ghost once more, capable of passing through just about anything. He has one stop to make before he goes.  
  
Claritha Pearce answers the door in a bold animal print sundress and with a carefully composed smile. She leans back in the doorway and looks him over. “My, my, my,” she coos. “The big city has been good to you.”  
  
She wraps him up in a hug so big and firm, it makes him feel like a boy. “Come on in,” she holds the door and smiles at him fondly. He hasn’t even said a word.  
  
Passing through the front door is like traveling back in time. Sure, the furniture has changed, but the knickknacks, Mrs. Pearce’s collection of elephants and Mr. Pearce’s planes, are all where they should be. Where Rome and Brian love cars, Roy Pearce loved planes. His dad being a Tuskegee Airman had something to do with it. As a mechanic, he alternated between Lou’s Garage and the old airfield.  
  
The lessons about cars are the ones that stuck for him and Rome.  
  
Two small boys sit in front to the television with cars and blocks, the common favorites of boys everywhere. He and Rome used to sit in the same spot after school and plan and plot or as Mrs. Claritha would say, “Scheme” when there was little else to do but make trouble.  
  
“Whose kids?” he asks.  
  
She smiles, her pearly grin revealed as plump mahogany lips part. “See, you’ve been away a long time. Those are Denise’s two boys.”  
  
“Really? Wow, it has been a long time.”  
  
The Pearce clan is composed of Roy and Claritha and kids Denise, Lee a.k.a Roy Jr., David, and Roman. The eldest three were in their mid-teens when Rome came around.  
  
“Denise works over at the Health Center. She’s been a doctor there for about five years now. David stayed in Atlanta after finishing school and,” she pauses with a rueful shake of her head. “We know where Roman and Lee are.”  
  
Rome’s in prison.  
  
Lee died in one of those freak accidents between wars.  
  
“Yeah, sorry,” Brian says.  
  
“Don’t be.”Mrs. Claritha pats him on the shoulder and directs him to the family table. “Tea?” Iced Tea is an integral part of their Southern roots that the Pearces never got rid of after coming west.  
  
Brian offers her a sincere grin. “I can’t tell you the last time I had some.”  
  
He listens to her feet move across the yellow linoleum that he and Rome use to slide across when slippery from her mopping it. He laughs at the memories of her chasing them out and threatening them with the business end of her broom, or even worse, a belt.  
  
“Aw, I know that laugh.” She sets down two glasses brimming with sweet tea and lemon. “I still owe you and that boy for messing up my floors.”  
  
“That was good fun.”  
  
“Uh huh, until you’re forced to clean it up.” They share a small laugh and go about the routine inspection that two people do after years apart. Her signature French Roll is streaked with grey and her cheeks are just a bit fuller, her bright dark eyes are surrounded by small fissures from the passage of time and worry about Rome. She’s still a sturdy and beautiful woman.  
  
His cheeks pink at the thought of his crush on her when he was nine.  
  
“I bet you’re breaking lots of hearts out in LA. Boy, you’ve got your mother’s blue eyes, I swear.”  
  
He shrugs. “Not really. I work too much to have time to.” Which is absolutely true, if he doesn’t include Mia in the mix.  
  
She shakes her head and gives him a warm look, “Don’t run yourself into the ground.”  
  
He bites his lip and arches his eyebrows at her suggestion. “I’ll try.” Though that’s exactly where his career is. His life isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s eight kinds of messed up and he feels just a wee bit disoriented. Caught in a tailspin he hasn’t bargained for and wholly out of control.  
  
She reaches across the table and pats his hand. “Why’d you come back?” Mrs. Pearce had been a school teacher for well over thirty years and a mother for just as long. She’d practically raised him, so she can see clearly the burden hovering over his head.  
  
“I’m going out east.” Brian looks into her eyes and away. “I’m not sure where yet, but I know I’ll probably not pass through this way again.” Ever. This is goodbye to her, too.  
  
Her hand tightens over his. “What about your job?”  
  
“They asked me to compromise and I wouldn’t, couldn’t, so I have to find something else.”  
  
“Good for you.” She pats his hand once more before letting go. Mrs. Pearce has always believed in the value of integrity and personal convictions. And, maybe, some of her beliefs have rubbed off on him in the interim. “If you think it’s for the best then it is.” She can read between the lines. The last time he came back to Prosperity was for Mr. Pearce’s funeral. That time was also just before Rome got put away.  
  
“How have you been?” Brian asks. He sips the tea and savors the taste. It’s genuine and real sweet, it’s no wonder so many people in the South have diabetes, but it still tastes like the best parts of his childhood memories.  
  
She drums her nails against the table’s scratched polished surface. It’s a subconscious gesture. “Good. Grandbabies and retirement agree with me.” Her eyes pin him in place now. That maternal gaze could make any man, big or small, feel like a tiny baby under its inspection. “I understand why you left. You had every right to and from the look of things it was good that you did.”  
  
That declaration is truly subjective, he thinks. “Rome doesn’t think so.”  
  
“Well Roman--” Mrs. Claritha always calls her son Roman when she’s annoyed with him, “--has issues about not having everyone’s attention, including his best friend’s. Blame me, I spoiled him rotten.” She isn’t the least bit contrite for that fact either.  
  
His fingers trace the lines of condensation on the glass. They move on their own accord as he thinks back to the moment their friendship diverged. “I was barely out of the academy when Rome got caught up in that sting. If I could’ve--”  
  
Mrs. Claritha waves him off, silencing him with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t juggle with the past, it won’t get you anywhere. I don’t expect you to be Rome’s moral compass. He’s a grown man, as are you, so by now, he has to stand on his own two feet. Like Denise, David, and you.”  
  
“I’ll try to tell him that next time.” Which would be whenever Rome would decide to forgive him.  
  
“Write him a letter. That’s better than trying to visit. That fool might make you waste your gas.”  
  
Before when Brian tried to get to Rome, his best friend, spitting and cursing in spite, left him off the visitors list every time. Each time, Brian swore he wouldn’t go back. He did though, and feels equal parts pissed and sad that Rome was and is still pissed at him.  
  
Brian nods. “I think I will.”  
  
“You have a lot of past here and I have the old tickets to prove it.”  
  
He ducks his head at the mentions of flirtations with the law here in Prosperity. “Did I ever apologize for that?”  
  
Her smile is one of maternal pride. “You don’t have to. Makes me happy to call you one of my own, whether you like it or not.” She pats his hand gently. “You’re a good man, Brian, and I know your Ma would be proud.” It’s as welcome a benediction as he’s ever wanted.  
  
These are the kind of words that hug close and give warmth on the coldest of nights. A mother’s words. “Thanks,” he says a long second after, his throat suddenly becoming scratchy despite the coolness of his drink.  
  
They talk a little more about this and that. Brian catches her up on what his life has been over the last few years, though it’s an abridged version; his life hasn’t been all that exciting since he moved out on his own.  
  
Later, Mrs. Claritha walks him to the door. “Go find your corner of the world, Bri.” She presses a soft kiss to his cheek and pulls him close in one last hug. “You take care of yourself. Don’t ever feel like a stranger.” She doesn’t know how often he feels like that.  
  
The sun is hanging low in blinding intensity. A few hours before the sky and the road match and the horizon seems infinite. He’s leaving Prosperity for good. The black trail his tires burn into the concrete as he jets down the main drag this last time is his farewell salute to his past and all his ghosts in this town.  
  
“Goodbye, Prosperity,” he says and listens to his engine roar.

 

* * *

  
Brian could do quiet and still like one of those terra cotta soldiers he and Rome learned about in ninth grade. His teachers always mistook his restless energy for an inability to focus and his nascent desire to be a class clown. The need to be the center of attention was always Rome’s thing. The reason Brian could never sit still was that he didn’t want the world to pass him by; there had to be something more for him to do or another problem for him to solve. Brian O’Conner was the poster-child for idle hands, making work for the devil.  
  
As a kid, he had the type of energy that made teachers itch to stuff Ritalin down his throat. Now he can sit still when it matters, and think, strategize if need be. Driving a car, mainly his car, is the best therapy he can ever buy.  
  
The Lancer is the first car Brian had ever legitimately bought. There had been plenty of others that he and Rome stole when they were kids. It was rather shoddy looking, nothing like the Supra. The color was a dull blue that evoked boredom just by looking at it. Dents and imperfections marred the chassis and the headlights are a little cock-eyed. Dom would laugh if ever saw this car.  
  
It didn’t look like a ten second car, but it ate up the road like a lumberjack goes through pancakes and syrup. The money he managed to save by working more than his fair share of shit shifts when he was in the middle of his career with the department. A smarmy salesman gave it him for twelve hundred dollars cheaper, because the engine ticked and pinged and leaked, but Brian knew that was due to the smarmy salesman’s grease jockey treating the car like a chore rather than a puzzle. He took the bus for several weeks as he upgraded the engine.  
  
Then electric fuel injection.  
  
And the pumps, plugs, cams, and turbos.  
  
The day he put the Nos in he took a race up in La Brea and won a cool three grand. That had been a good day indeed.  
  
He spends the night in Albuquerque and wakes up the next day to eat the best Tex-Mex he’s ever had. When he finishes his huevos rancheros and battery acid coffee, he scribbles a quick note on a postcard and drops it in the mail.

In post millennium-America, there’s racer scene in every city. He looks for the signs; usually tracks, a fading whisper of chalk residue on the pavement and a stretch of good road. He meets a tatted-up kid driving a sick Civic with a Barney-purple base and hellfire flames along the edges.  
  
The kid eyes his car reproachfully and for a second, it’s like Brian’s standing with the mash-up of Jesse and Vince. That lucky drop of sweat that skirts down his backbone makes him shiver like someone walked over his grave. Impressed by what he sees under Brian’s hood, the kid passes off directions to a race happening around one.  
  
That night he watches as the kid wins his race and debates whether he’ll do the same. He peruses the scene, the cars, the racers, the girls in too-little clothing that are fixtures at every race, and searches for Dom, even though he knows he won’t see him among the crowd and definitely not smiling in his direction. Brian enters a race at the last second and beats the pants off all the competition, including the next closest car by ten seconds.  
  
The Lancer isn’t much, but it gets the job done.  
  
Before he falls asleep on his naught-count motel sheets, he reads from the one book he owns, the only book he’s ever worshiped like the Bible, and thinks of a plan. So he reads:  
  
 _He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees._  
  
The next morning, Brian rolls out of New Mexico with two cups of bitter coffee and a little richer.  
  
He takes I-10 through Texas.  
  
In San Antonio, he wins a few races and gets drunk off adrenaline when he sees a Charger roll through. The part of him that is still waiting for Dom to come along and remind him of the ten-second-car urges him on, makes his eyes shine more than starbursts and ecstasy, so he races a Fat Joe wannabe _pendejo_ for slips. At last second, he pulls up on the guy and hits the Nos.  
  
Fat Joe has two cars that night and Brian takes the Skyline instead of the Mustang and an extra grand too.  
  
He sends another postcard with the Spurs Girls in cowboy hats on the glossy face.

He gets acquainted with the Skyline in Louisiana and finds a body shop that will let him work on his car for six hundred bucks. It’s a genuine bargain and his car, once it’s painted up in white and blues, looks like frost in the middle of Deep South summer.  
  
With no schedule to keep, he drifts down to New Orleans and hangs out in the French Quarter. Even though it’s not Mardi Gras, it’s another big weekend and he drinks plenty of Hurricanes and eats a sackful of beignets, and learns that crawfish are equal parts delicious and gross. He makes out with more people over the course of a weekend than he does in the entire year. New Orleans is definitely a place he’ll come back to, even if the roads suck.

He breezes through the panhandle of Mississippi and learns the meaning of true southern hospitality from a generous redhead. He climbs aboard the USS Alabama outside Mobile and realizes there’s no way in hell he could have been a sailor. He meets an ex-sailor with an accent that reminds him of syrup pouring over biscuits who gives him directions to the best soul food place in Mobile with the same enthusiasm as a later hand job in the bathroom.

He sits on a lonely stretch of beach in Pensacola. It’s ninety-five degrees with a hundred percent humidity; his sweat feels like molasses. The Gulf is choppy and a tepid blue-grey to match the churning sky. He swims out a few yards before floating on his back. The waves rock him carelessly. And Brian thinks, _This is real life_. He stares at the sky with the absence of sun and daydreams about Corona and a dusty strip of beach in Mexico. Dom’s there.  
  
“Wish you were here,” Brian says over the open water. The sky opens and rain falls, batting his words and wishes into the depths of the ocean. He can almost fall asleep like this.  
  
He decides to go south instead of north to Atlanta. He’d miss the ocean if he goes to Atlanta. It’s the last real friend he has.

 

* * *

  
He travels to I-75 around Tallahassee and cruises south, surrounded by the discordant patches of forest, palm trees, and farmland. Florida gives Louisiana a run for its money with the chucky peanut butter words. Driving south takes about eight to ten hours starting from the capital at the pace of a regular person.  
  
He sings along with Steve Perry. Journey has always been one of his favorites. Maybe it’s because the guy’s desperate crooning has always hit something inside him. “Separate Ways, man.” That is the story of his life. He gets a little Aerosmith, Zeppelin and Queen along the way. He doesn’t have a bad voice, another one of those talents that he never talks about.  
  
It’s easy to sing along to songs he’s heard a thousand times before and knows better than the Pledge of Allegiance or the Miranda Rights. I-75 takes him through the unexpected dips and curves that presumably flat Florida has. It’s nothing but woods and flat earth, red splotches of living animals turned dead detritus and highway wheel and bumper meat along the road’s shoulder, and the zipping cars full of either tourists or college students returning to their normal lives in cars packed up to the ceiling.  
  
They keep his mind going.  
  
Rather than risking the static of the dead air by trying cipher out a radio station, thus giving himself time to think about other thoughts. Thoughts about people, places, and things.  
  
Denial is the name of the game.  
  
Watching out for gators, deer, and the occasional armadillo or raccoon is easier, or really less painful, than thinking back to L.A. In his mind, his life doesn’t end farther back than L.A.  
  
Because just thinking about Dom makes him see all the fissures in the life he was building for himself and that feeling isn’t freeing like floating on the ocean. It’s listless and disorienting and fucking terrifying in how out of control he is.

The miles tick down until he enters Miami-Dade County. Brian breathes once more. The smug-free air feels like home. So he stops.  
  
Miami is different from most major cities. It’s like New Orleans in some ways, with its downtown skyscrapers clustered together and sitting near the water, making for a distinct, but not overly crowded skyline. The ocean, or later he learns Biscayne Bay, is always instinctually on the other side.  
  
Even on the road, he gets a feeling for the urbanized version of wide open spaces. Like L.A., he sees billboards in dueling English and Spanish; passing over the top of North Miami-Dade, he gets his first introduction to Haitian Creole.  
  
It’s late, well past midnight and there are still speeding cars; more than his fair share of barely legal have rolled past him or ridden on his tail. Brian’s too tired to flash and follow. The night is still alive and calling for exploration.  
  
He takes an exit for Key Biscayne after passing the glittering lights of the two Miami arenas and the tall buildings lit up in bands of color like summer popsicles. He takes the ramp and passes through the light at the end and comes face to face with the toll gate separating the little isle from the rest of the city. It promises him dolphins and sharks, at least from the sight of the diving-cage statue promoting the Seaquarium.  
  
The toll is a brilliant tactic to keep out the undesirables, because Key Biscayne isn’t like any other small town or suburb. It’s less flashy than its Miami Beach cousins, but it carries the same expensive air and crisp beauty that comes from prime real estate and high property taxes.  
  
At night though, crossing the Rickenbacker, he’s surrounded by Miami on all sides: downtown, the harbor and its infinite line of cruise ships waiting to leave for further tropical locations, the bay, the ocean, and the lights of the distant houses and condos along the coast of the island. It’s spectacular, even in the dark. The city doesn’t try hard to impress; it just is, like a beautiful woman doesn’t have to ask for attention—it follows her no matter where she goes.  
  
The bottom of the sprawling bridge offers him his first opportunity to see the Atlantic. It’s a small beach, mostly a thin line of sand and palm trees wide enough for parking and a little frolicking between the water’s edge.  
  
There are a few cars parked at various intervals along the sand; this is probably Miami’s version of make-out mountain.  
  
He stops the Skyline a little ways up from the cars and sits, staring at the black tide ahead. As soon as he gets out the smell of salt hits him full on. Between the sand and sea, there’s an almost electric taste to it. A light wind strokes the palm fronds and they sing a nightly tune, waving in time with the curls of the ocean's tongue. The Atlantic is definitely more peaceful. Standing on what he’ll also learn to be a poor man’s beach, he watches the moon, so bright and full, as it hangs so white above the pure abyss below. It’s a definite contrast. It’s a distinct line, breaking the world down into a dichotomy: light and dark, heaven and earth, and black and white.  
  
It’s almost weird that he understands this, but really not so much. He wants a new start. He needs to find himself. Truly realize just who Brian O’Conner is without the expectations made by a seventeen-year-old boy trapped in a dying town with a family full of ghosts at his back. In Miami, he can forget about being a cop, about messing up Mia’s life, and never seeing Dom again. He’s driven from coast to coast for a reason, and he can now have the freedom to be whoever he wants.  
  
He walks down to the water’s edge and stands just out of reach of the tide. He’s still Brian O’Conner. It’s just now he gets finally understand who that is.  
  
The Atlantic is a lot warmer on his fingers than he imagined.


	3. Three

He sleeps in his car that first night and watches the sun rise truly in the east.  
  
Brian finds the houseboat by accident while exploring one of Miami’s many areas of inner-city wilderness. It’s on the Miami River in a space between the warehouses and barges laden with bicycles and school buses headed for the Caribbean and the wealthy waterfront mansions with boats waiting to ferry their owners to and from their lives of inestimable wealth.  
  
The houseboat…It’s smaller than a typical dinghy.  
  
He meets Tej by accident. Racers, like most people, have places where the likelihood of meeting someone with a similar interest or background is more common. The obvious garages, custom shops, are the general locales, but sometimes nothing connects people faster than what all their cars need—gas.  
  
He’s filling up at a wannabe CITGO station. The air is hot and sweat drips down his neck. It’s almost as humid here as New Orleans, with the exception of more mosquitoes. A silver and black Nissan Altima pulls up on the other side of the pump. A minute or two passes as the driver heads inside, pays, and comes back to get the pump going.  
  
The driver makes a low whistle between his lips and pops his head more prominently between the gas pumps to inspect Brian’s car. He gives it an appreciative once-over before lapsing into rapid machinegun fire Spanish, asking questions about Brian’s specs. He can follow through the accent on the Spanish but the excessive speed of it throws him off some.  
  
Finally catching the drift behind Brian’s silence, the other racer slows down and asks, “Gringo?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“New in town, huh?”  
  
“Right again,” Brian says.  
  
“Boy, you gotta learn quick. Your ride is sweet, son.”  
  
It’s almost second nature to expect almost everyone to speak a bit of Spanish in Miami.  
  
He meets Tej by way of Victor, who reminds him of Hector, and ultimately Suki and Raj. He stands back as Tej and crew check out his car and that macho pride that guys get from having their cars inspected is the first taste, and sometimes only chance, of paternal pride. The joy of seeing something you make passing inspection under the eyes of others fills up all the empty spaces inside.  
  
Tej drops his hood and nods absently at the car. “Buy-in’s a grand and we do this thang every Saturday.”  
  
Brian cocks his head, thinking about the offer for only a half second. His enigmatic front is regular throwback. “I’ll think about. Need some more time to get settled, so I’ll hit you up later with an answer.”  
  
“Word, man.” They knuckle-bump and Brian knows it’s cool, knows that Tej is good people all the way around and Brian can easily see himself hanging around Tej’s garage, mostly soaking up some sun and figuring out new specs for his car. Suki strikes him as the type of chick that Rome would like to chase and she’d make it worth his while.  
  
He sticks around until the sun begins to hang lazily in the sky and figures it’s time to start setting himself up. Miami traffic gives L.A. a run for its money with all the road construction and flat-out illegal moves that his fellow drivers pull, making his trip home staggeringly longer. It’s not until he’s done unpacking his few bagged-up possessions from the car into the houseboat that he realizes he drove right through his birthday. He’s twenty-six and starting over.

 

 

* * *

He finds his favorite bar by accident. He passes through Coconut Grove and the blazing lights and sounds of live music from the shopping center and clubs on the waterfront. He hits Main Highway by taking a slight left at the fork in the road by the village bank and finds himself traveling beneath the canopy covered street much quieter than the main body of the Grove. Sure, there are shops and restaurants along both sides of the street, but they don’t call out to visitors with the same blatant ploys, no flashing lights or big sounds, like whores catcalling for sailors.  
  
A thicket of shrubbery surrounds a gravel drive where a sign reading “Bar” with an arrow sits near the street. Having nothing else better to do, he turns and winds his way along the noisy stone path to a ramshackle little place that looks like it could tip over with a gust of strong wind.  
  
The outside shows that this is the type of place that stands on its own for what it can offer. It’s a place to relax and unwind, watch a game, play a little pool, or just shoot the shit. The Grey Gator is the type of place that is harder and harder to find in the new Miami. It’s semi-dark and militantly smoky with a real jukebox in the corner that plays Jimmy Buffet, Lynard Skynard, Muddy Waters, bringing back the fact that Miami vis-à-vis location was still a part of the South.  
  
It’s the kind of bar that has pool tables with warn green felt and neon signs promising cold Miller and Budweiser on tap and even Corona for those with newer taste. The guys and few gals in the place are the kind of people that look like they’ve lived life, their skin more on the leathery side or the deepest shades of career fishermen ruddy.  
  
Brian notices rather quickly that the action in the bar is broken up into which activities customers want to enjoy. There’s a card table in the back dedicated to dominoes, and all the players are old Cuban men in crisp linen shirts— _guayaberas_ , he learns later. There are a couple of pool tables that look like they’ve had plenty of exercise, a few booths and mostly tables. The bar is sparsely crowded. It’s made of heavy wood and has a long mirror behind the back counter that allows him to people watch.  
  
He gets friendly with Jimbo, who’s the main bartender. From the green scrawls over his healthy forearms, Brian learns Jimbo used to be a sailor turned fisherman until he bought the place after Hurricane Andrew. They talk now and then; Jimbo strikes Brian as a friendly guy, but not too invasive. Patrons go to Grey Gator to have a good time with little complications. Pick a poison and have at it.  
  
He orders a Corona and reads the newspaper. Despite being computer literate and internet savvy, Brian still prefers using the newspaper. He’s not in a real hurry to get a job. The newspaper is full of jewels, waiting to be found.  
  
In a corner booth, next to slated wooden blinds and a low burning Corona neon sign are two men, both somewhat out of place in their casual suits that are undoubtedly expensive. From Brian’s position at the bar, he can see them clearly in the mirror that hangs above the liquor display and the tension between them is thick and twice as palatable.  
  
The man sitting off to Brian’s left is a step above the typical movie-of-the-week greasy gangster type. Throw on some pastel colors and this guy could have been a villain of the week on Miami Vice. His suit is dark and casual, not too exactly polished, because it obvious the way it pulls and sags that it came off a sales rack somewhere. The gold chain around his neck gives him away. The man sitting opposite to Greasy sticks out even more in a place like this. His suit is tailored, and his clean appearance only heightens the danger in that GQ-James Bond sort of way. His profile is strong, chiseled; his chin when he turns it sideways has a sophisticated cleft and he’s a combination of light and dark, pale skin, an oddity here in sunny Miami, and dark short shorn hair, the waviness of it speaks of curls more unruly than his own. The guy was out of place like a lawyer would be. He appears to be all sleek edges and there are probably many shiny modern devices in his pockets.  
  
A lawyer, Brian thinks again.  
  
No, movie star. Having lived in L.A, it seems logical that he’d be able to pick out the genuine article from the wannabes, but he never managed to meet many stars. It was always the opposite for him. Someone would end up staring at him too long thinking about what they’ve seen him in or trying to decide if they should ask him for his autograph.  
  
The guy’s got a grin that Crest would pay him handsomely for. He coils like a snake and tries to plaster his best show of friendliness, but it’s no use. His anger is boiling over. “I want my money back.”  
  
“I can’t do that,” Greasy says, as if his statement is reasonable.  
  
GQ is barely controlling his spewing anger. “You can or you won’t. Those are your two options. The ink on the check isn’t even dry.” He leans slightly across the table, making the small space just a wee bit more claustrophobic. “I see what you did.”  
  
Greasy can’t lie for shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Apparently, he can’t even pretend to sound innocent.  
  
“Oh, you know what I’m talking about.” GQ presses closer, forcing the grease-ball back. “The City is up my ass about that property and you sold it just in time. I buy and sell, I don’t keep. That principle alone saves me a lot of time, energy, and most of all, money. This building is more trouble than it’s worth.”  
  
The anger in GQ’s words have yet to penetrate the sphere of denial that surrounds Greasy. “It’s just bad luck,” he says and makes a half-hearted attempt at smiling genuinely at GQ.  
  
“ _Cabrón_ , it’s no coincidence. It’s fucking genius what you did and I’m pissed that you played me for a sucker. You’re going to take the property back and give me my money. I like to keep my working relationships clean, but I’ll get dirty if need be. ” With a finger pointing in Greasy’s face and a tight-corned smile at his lips, GQ finishes with, “Don’t push me.”  
  
More stupid than smart, Greasy flat eyes call GQ’s bluff. “Prove it,” Greasy Man counters. “You’re all talk….Think you’re a big man, because you make threats. Sorry, you got screwed over, but business is business.”  
  
GQ rubs his jaw. It’s a contemplative gesture. “Sure.” Again, he goes back to pointing at Greasy’s face; it’s the sort of motion that’s about pinning someone into place rather than being rude. It’s a power play and from the looks of things, Brian can tell GQ is quite versed in the subject.  
  
GQ’s smirk morphs into a shark’s grin. “I don’t make idle threats. Let’s see how that wife of yours would react to knowing that you’ve been catting around with that _sucia_ that every wannabe thug, gangster, and _businessman_ from West Palm to Key West has had a go at. I know she comes from a legit background. I doubt that she’d hesitate in working you over in court and with her papa’s machete. I bet papa would even do the honors to get rid of a fuck-up like you as his son-in-law.”  
  
Even across the bar, Brian can see the tick of Greasy’s jaw. He can see the way the guy’s muddy brown eyes brighten and go to barely contained raging-bull brightness. Obviously, GQ hit a nerve. He could just let it go, but his old cop instincts haven’t been quite shaken off and he knows that things are going to turn ugly. Then again, as his eyes stray up to the mirror, maybe he likes the look of danger.  
  
The movement is so subtle, Brian almost misses it. The way Greasy’s hand drifts down to his pants. A flash of silver and the way Greasy’s hand moves over his lap, it’s obvious that he’s not going to play with himself in public. Those cop instincts that screamed ‘trouble’ before are calling out to Brian to do something now. There are three options on the table, since do nothing isn’t one of them: a) he could do the public thing and yell “gun.” But someone was likely to get hurt, b) he could just call the cops, but there would be too much time in between them showing up and something going wrong, or c) he could act. He can do subtlety.  
  
Greasy’s still on course for doing something big and stupid, so Brian stands with his beer bottle in hand as he notices Greasy’s meaty fist closing over the handle of his weapon. He puts on his best stagger, thinks of zombies, hopes that he won’t regret this, and stumbles over to their booth.  
  
“It’s you!” he says, affecting his best drunk surfer charm. Brian doesn’t fail to notice that each man jumps slightly when he calls out to them. He’s broken the tension. He needs to see if he can keep it that way. “Man, I can’t believe it’s, like, you and such.” Brian croons in drunken amusement at GQ.  
  
GQ smiles at him indulgently. “Sorry, man, I can’t say that I know you.”  
  
Brian plows ahead, undeterred by GQ’s brush-off. “I know, but you’re that guy…from that movie. You know,” he turns to Greasy for help jogging his memory. “Dude, you know the movie, right? The one with the aliens and that planet and the guy with the glow in the eyes.” His voice rises steadily with his fake drunken excitement.  
  
A few patrons turn to watch him and slake their curiosity then go back to the baseball game or pool, while GQ and Greasy share a look, one that carries a lot of information and the return of Greasy’s slouching posture and his hands above the table.  
  
“Yeah, you’re right, man.” Greasy tells Brian. His voice is rougher than expected, tobacco- bruised and whiskey rough. His words carry across with the slightest bit of an accent, which draws bolder after his hard swallow of his shot of vodka. “We, ah, were just handling some business…this guy,” Greasy gesticulates with a smile. “He’s going to be a star, if he makes the right moves.”  
  
The threat is clear, even to Brian’s possibly inebriated state.  
  
“Why don’t you get my man’s autograph here?” Greasy slides a napkin over to Brian and offers GQ a look that reads too smug and self-satisfied. “If you’d excuse me, some of us need our beauty sleep more than others.”  
  
Brian makes a well played stutter-step as Greasy slides out of the booth. “Sure, man.” He takes long draw from his beer and pats his pockets as Greasy mock salutes GQ and walks towards the exit. “Gotta a pen?” Asking GQ snaps his attention back to Brian and away from the foolish idea of following Greasy.  
  
“Nope, I seem to be fresh out of pens and autographs.”  
  
“That’s okay.” Brian offers, suddenly seeming very sober. “I didn’t really want one anyway.” GQ’s eyes go from annoyed to suspicious in a few seconds. “Whatever you said to your friend really pissed him off.” Of course, he’s not going to let on that he actually heard the exchange. He may be blond, but he’s not stupid. Not by a long shot.  
  
“How do you know?” GQ inquires, his body reading that he’s clearly gone on the defensive.  
  
Pointing with the beer bottle, Brian indicates the mirror above the bar precisely above his seat and how it shows the booth perfectly. “Your friend was getting a bit handsy for a public place and I didn’t think anyone needed to get hurt on a night like this. Good beer, a game…it’s no reason for trouble.”  
  
GQ looks moderately impressed. “I guess I owe you my life.”  
  
“Naw, a beer maybe?” Brian flashes a smirk and backs off a little. “Your life is all yours.”  
  
GQ smiles full and bright and Brian easily finds himself doing the same. “I’ll remember that.” GQ still assessing Brian, asks, “What are you drinking?”  
  
“Anything as long as it’s Corona.” One of the few recent lessons, he surely won’t forget.  
  
GQ nods in agreement, “Good choice.”  
  
Miami’s already shown that it won’t be dull in the least.

* * *

  
  
He develops a pretty fast routine in Miami. Every morning, he wakes up and lies in bed as the minor waves of the Miami River draw him out of sleep. Sunshine cuts through cracks in the flimsy curtains over the windows and he gets up to start his day.  
  
He pays the toll and goes back to Key Biscayne, because it’s the easiest beach to get to, and despite the morning traffic, the sight of the ocean and subsequent healing properties of its currents are enough to make him forget that this modicum of life that he’s living is actually real and not some imagined fantasy.  
  
Brian never lingers too long on the beach. The sun grows strong and sizzling hot rather quickly. He only lets his mind escape here to think about non-concrete things, like Dom, and the possibility of Dom watching the sun rise in Mexico with a bucket full of Corona and his freedom intact.  
  
He gets lunch at a little Cuban restaurant not far from the beach and enjoys his _medianoche_ sandwich and _papas fritas_. Later, he’ll go home and shower, then get back into his car and just drive. One day, he makes it clear out to Homestead and goes to the speedway even though there won’t be a race there until the weekend. He’ll eat again along the way back to Miami proper. The drive north up I-75 and then US-1 where they meet in Kendall makes him a little traffic-weary and eager to return to the sedateness of cool beer, low playing sports, and the crack of cues against striped and solid balls.  
  
He hits the Grey Gator maybe three or four nights a week. If he doesn’t, he’s either home or hanging at Tej’s and just shooting the shit that never strays into anything too deep.  
  
It’s a Saturday, the Marlins are playing and a couple of old men in the back are playing dominoes and reminiscing about pre-Castro Cuba. Their rowdiness is the kind that old men take on after too much alcohol and years of long-held passion. From the things he can hear from his place at the bar, it seems that Cuba is modeled as this long-lost lover, the ultimate lover, for these men, that neither time or distance has been able to shake them of. Brian wonders if L.A. will ever be like that for him or if his thoughts of Dom and Mia and the team will forever be ghosts from a past, present, and future of unrealized regrets.  
  
“I’m definitely not drunk enough to go there,” he mutters to himself. He folds the newspaper in front of him, deciding to give his classifieds search a rest. There’s always private security, he thinks.  
  
A twenty dollar bill is slapped down on the counter to his left. “I hope not.” The owner of the twenty gets the bartenders attention and asks for “Two Coronas” before turning to face Brian fully.  
  
By now, Brian has looked in the mirror overhead and knows exactly who is joining him and more specifically that one of those Coronas is for him.  
  
“Surprise, surprise, it’s nice to see my hero again.” GQ’s voice is saturated in cockiness minus that dangerous edge from a few nights ago. The Coronas materialize in front of them and GQ nudges one over to Brian. “I asked Jimbo about you a few days ago. He said you come in sometimes, but couldn’t tell me when, so I’ve been checking up on you for when you did stop by again.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Brian drops a lime wedge into the bottle and takes a hardy swallow. “Sorry to keep you waiting then. I’m not much of a barfly.”  
  
“I can see.” GQ smiles, takes a drink and goes back to his silent assessment of Brian. His mouth stays locked in a genuine smile and he seems pleased in some way. “I wanted to let you know that you were right. My _friend_ ,” he adds loosely, “could have created a terrible scene in here the other night.” GQ pulls up a stool and parks himself directly in the small sphere of Brian’s personal space. “I’m just curious to know how you knew what to do when you did.”  
  
Brian shrugs, tries to affect a calm air. “I used to be a cop. So all the training about assessing a situation sticks with you, and then again it might be my head full of street smarts that read all the signs correctly.” GQ’s face tightens, but that grin he gives off like a calling card stays in place. The cop part is both unanticipated and cautious making.  
  
It’s GQ’s turn to not look like he’s been thrown for a loop. “You used to be a cop? Huh, when you were in diapers?” GQ drains the rest of his Corona and Brian finds himself smiling and laughing, just a little.  
  
Brian flashes GQ a grin. “I’m not that young.” Brian sits up giving GQ his full attention. “Yeah, and I was a cop for a few years.”  
  
“You’re, like what, twenty-two, twenty-three, maybe twenty-four at the max?”  
  
“Twenty-six, actually.”  
  
“So did you retire or were you a bad policeman?” GQ quirks his brow to cheekily emphasize the nature of bad that he’s talking about.  
  
Bad? GQ may have hit the nail on the head. “Yeah, I had a change of heart. Maybe it was because I was a bad cop in the traditional sense of the word or maybe it’s because I lost my passion for it.” GQ easily draws answers out of him. Normally not a Chatty Cathy, he finds himself talking not out of the mindless sense of doing so, but answering real questions, things that he’s only asked himself.  
  
GQ’s eyes bore into him like a laser and it’s equal parts unnerving as it is exciting. “A man can’t live a life without passion.” What has he seen by looking at him?  
  
That’s the startling truth. Excluding his car and surfing, Brian doesn’t have many passions anymore. “No, he can’t.” _I can’t._  
  
After another round, GQ indicates with a nudge of his chin a free pool table. Brian takes solids and GQ takes stripes. GQ waits for him to break before asking, “What are you doing now?”  
  
“Nothing much. I drove out here from L.A., race whenever I feel like it, and just live I guess.”  
  
GQ loses his jacket and leans down for his first shot. “That rice rocket out there is yours?” He misses.  
  
Brian beams as he prepares to take another shot. “Yeah, it’s all mine. I actually won her in Houston.”  
  
GQ watches Brian play. His hands are folded over the top of his cue. He embodies patience as he tracks Brian’s progress. “You must be pretty good.”  
  
“I do okay,” Brian replies, taking another shot and sinking two balls.  
  
He maneuvers around the table to take another shot. This one isn’t nearly as productive. GQ weaves around him, hefting his stick as he goes, before leaning over to line up his next shot. “You content to just race and chill?” The last part comes out with the faintest hint of derision. “Because I can tell you that gets boring very fast.”  
  
“I’m looking for a job, but I’m not in any real rush.” Brian leans on his cue, watching GQ make his way around the table. “I could always go back to some of the jobs I had before going to the academy.”  
  
“Like?” GQ’s curiosity is piqued.  
  
Some of his past jobs were awful. Back then, he’d been trying to save up money so that he wouldn’t be entirely flat broke while he was in the academy and had enough to set himself up somewhere. “I did the grease monkey thing for about seven months. I tried my hand at retail, which was a bad decision from the start.” Being a clothes slinger brought out the worst in the people he had to serve.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“For one, people are gross and did some of the strangest things to the dressing rooms. Plus, the sexual harassment wasn’t worth it.”  
  
GQ tries to subdue his chuckles with a gruff cough or two, but fails. “That bad?”  
  
Brian beams, “I coulda been a millionaire, if I’d taken it to court.”  
  
The way GQ’s eyes roll over him, seems to wholeheartedly agree with the harassment. This is the first ping on Brian’s radar that GQ may be a little more interested in something else besides offering his thanks.  
  
Since it’s not a real game, Brian’s next shot goes astray without any serious ramifications. “I was a substitute teacher for a while….That was actually fun.” The kids, as he remembers, were great. The moms, and the occasional dad, made him decide that teaching wasn’t for him permanently.  
  
GQ lights a cigar. Waits a second or two after he stokes the flames and releases a cloud of smoke into the air. “You with a bunch of ankle-biters? I can’t actually imagine that.”  
  
“Like I said, it was fun. They were kindergarteners mostly and at that age they’re either sweet as pie or brats. It helps when you’re much bigger than them.”  
  
The game peters out eventually. Neither one of them is playing for any real stakes. GQ puts away their cues as Brian racks the balls. When Brian looks around, GQ is slipping his jacket back on and readying himself for his exit.  
  
Brian can admit that he hasn’t been this relaxed in a long time and he really doesn’t want tonight to end. Maybe the unnatural state of loneliness is finally sinking in and forcing him to grasp onto face-to-face interaction.  
  
“It seems like you’re pretty adaptable,” GQ surmises.  
  
Brian shrugs, still not sure where this conversation is going. “Yeah, like MacGuyver minus the rubber band, toothpick, and a paperclip,” Brian deadpans.  
  
GQ laughs, a deep, genuine sound of amusement. “Take this.” It’s a card. “I’ll be expecting you Monday.”  
  
He turns the card over in his hands. It’s a standard business card and suddenly his mood isn’t as buoyed as he thought. “I don’t need a handout.”  
  
GQ smirks, shaking his head. “It’s not a handout. Think of it as a tryout.” He’s increasingly in Brian’s space, his side almost perpendicular to Brian’s. “I like you and I can’t say that about a lot of people. As for handouts, I don’t give any.”  
  
GQ shrugs ineffectually. “And you definitely strike me as the type who gets in trouble when left to his own devices, so I’ll call this my public service.” His smile is smooth and sharp as a knife.  
  
They stared at each other. GQ’s brown intelligent eyes shone back with excitement and true belief. “Consider this experience a debut.” The innuendo is effusive through the air. “I told you I’m a man of many hats. Sometimes, I can’t wear all of them; sometimes, I forget. It helps to have someone around you to keep it all straight.”  
  
“How am I supposed to do that?” Brian asks.  
  
“You were a cop,” GQ retorted. “I would assume there were procedures, schedules, some form of order that you had to follow.” He tapped his fingers on the pool table felt. “I need to get some order into my business.” The way his eyes stray from Brian’s face to the rest of him and back again implied the “my life too” that went unsaid.  
  
Brian sinks his shot, the crack of the balls resounding like a crash of bigger magnitude. “You’ve got a lot of confidence in me.” The thought of the hard stares at his back, the emptiness of his palm after he gave back his badge came to mind. Tanner’s trust destroyed. He didn’t have a shining record with that. “A little premature maybe.” No need to mention Dom and Mia.  
  
GQ waits with Zen-like patience, leaning against his cue as Brian sinks his next two shots. “You beat me at pool.” The tip of GQ’s cue traces the path of Brian’s last three shots. “My daddy said you get to know a man by how he plays against you. I’m fairly decent at pool. You outright beat me. Didn’t cheat, just worked the game to your advantage. That shows me that you can strategize and have at least a flicker of intelligence.”  
  
“I guess I should be flattered by your observation, but--” after leaning against the table, GQ slips into Brian’s space. Usually standing that close broadcasts a confrontational edge. Instead, it’s rather tempting, familiar. “But why play unless you plan to win.”  
  
“Exactly.” His hand slips into his pants pocket, removing a white card.  
  
Brian can see that this Mr. GQ has a lot to offer; whether it’s good or bad, he’ll learn through the experience. “You think you’ll be able to keep me on my toes?”  
  
“Most definitely.”  
  
He thrust his hand forward. “Brian O’Conner.”  
  
“I’m Carter Verone.”  
  
Brian’s mind conjures images of lightning striking, flashing, and making light. For some reason, Verone will always have a mental association with electricity.  
  
Verone shakes his hand with a contented look on his face. They’re vaguely flirting and eye fucking. It’s fun and promises, the way most fun things do, to be addictive.  
  
“I’ll expect you on Monday, Brian,” Verone reiterates.  
  
“Why Monday?”  
  
“Most people need a weekend to prepare.”  
  
“I’m not most people.”  
  
“Right you are.” Carter smiles with dimples and all. “Friday then and dress…”  
  
Brian looks down at his shirt and back at Verone.  
  
“Better,” Verone adds, nonplussed.  
  
Brian’s curiosity is piqued, so he’s not hedging when he asks, “Can I get a hint about what I’m supposed to be doing?”  
  
Verone cocks a brow and remains silent, content just to watch Brian’s reaction at to being forced to wait. “Consider yourself my assistant?”  
  
“Your secretary?” To which Verone cocks his brow, “Okay, I’ll be sure to wear my pencil skirt and stilettos.”  
  
Verone chuckles. “I hope you shave then.” He turns to leave. “Meet me at Kennedy Park at Nine AM sharp.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Brian?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I don’t like to wait.”  
  
With that, Verone leaves the Grey Gator and Brian knows the steady thrumming of his pulse isn’t from the alcohol, but the sense that better things are to come.

 

 

* * *

Kennedy Park is nestled along a lengthy and rich section of Coconut Grove, skims on parking for its visitors, but spares no expense in the public obstacle course and dog park located on its sweeping acreage. Then again, as he watches an old couple shuffle along a winding path to a set of benches near the water’s edge, visitors can always come to watch the sunrise.  
  
Brian spends much of the nest day thinking over Verone’s offer. In his mind it switches over to a standard form of formality, because it’s rude to address the boss by their first name unless directed to do so.  
  
It’s eight-fifty and the thought that keeps popping up more often than not is the idea that he’s crazy for even considering working for Verone. He parks in one of the remaining spaces in the meager parking lot. Never a real morning person or a coffee drinker, he adjusts his sunglasses and grabs his orange juice before getting out into the highlighter-bright morning.  
  
He surveys the park with a quick glance. There’s no unifying characteristic among the people out this morning beyond the fact that they’re all dedicated to getting a start on exercising for the day. Brian does the same over the parking lot. A pack of power-walking women smile at him as they pass by and politely he returns the smile.  
  
At the far end of the lot, mimicking his stance is Verone with an early morning eager grin and all. Brian walks over, while still thinking that he’s probably getting himself into something big, but if that voice is coming from Jiminy Cricket, then he’s definitely shit out of luck, because he’s always had a hard time listening to that voice.  
  
Verone pushes off the gleaming black chassis. “You’re early.” He pauses. “I like that.” It’s Friday, obviously a work day, and Verone is just as polished as the previous two times Brian has seen him. Brian has always had a low maintenance sense of style. Jeans and t-shirts are his standard uniform outside of his black uniform and the occasional use of his dress uniform. He can’t remember the last time he wore a pair of ironed slacks and a coordinated button-up shirt.  
  
“I’m not a morning person, so I needed to give myself more time.” It’s almost cliché to mention that a lot can be learned about a person by the car he or she drives. The car behind Verone was a new black Mercedes S-Class. It’s a traditional choice for those with money. Though the wheels, the grille, the twenty-inch-10-spoke alloy wheels and the understated air dam, are built for speed and handling. This car invokes thoughts of business and pleasure.  
  
Verone rounds the car and opens the driver’s side door. “You’re here and I’m here, let’s see if you can keep up.” There’s no actual urging, but the expectation is clear that Brian is supposed to get in the car with Verone. The Benz’s leather seats don’t disappoint. Soft leather supports his back and the engine sounds like a tiger as it roars to life. “Let’s get started shall we.”  
  
The look Verone turns on him is returned in full force. He is ready for the day. That little voice is back, warning him away, but the need for excitement and something more allows the words, “Let’s go,” to slip between his lips and direct them towards downtown.  
  
“What exactly do you do?” Brian asks, as they drive past the super-opulent houses and condos lining Bayshore Drive. This is one of the few places in Miami where old and new money collide and everyone pays extremely high property taxes proudly. “I mean I can’t be a good secretary, if I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”  
  
Verone keeps his eyes on the road when he answers. There’s no hesitation on his part. Truthfulness is a sign of competence and full understanding of what one is doing. Verone has that in spades. “I’m a businessman, real-estate mostly. Buying properties that people want and selling it for just a bit higher. Then there’s also finding things that other people want and finding the people that can give it to them. I make the right introductions.” He gives Brian a causal look, to see if his meaning is getting across. “Others may call it being a broker or a handler; I simply call myself a businessman and it’s my business to know what other people need.”  
  
Verone effortlessly controls the Mercedes and doesn’t weave in and out of traffic. He cruises along, and even that, Brian observes, comes off as charming. “If you’re clear on what you do, then I don’t think there’ll be much to worry about from me.”  
  
They bypass the toll for Key Biscayne and merge onto Brickell Avenue, the real home of the skyscrapers. Offices, banks, and condos are interweaved as they all try to offer the best view of Biscayne Bay and the ocean beyond the bridges to the smaller connecting keys. “I’m sure I don’t have to worry about you. Can you handle staying on your toes, making a connection or two, ultimately doing whatever needs to be done in order get the job finished, O’Conner?”  
  
Thinking of past things he’s done for the sake of the job and other people, Brian’s sure this will probably be a cakewalk. “As long as no moving semis are involved, I think I’m good. Thanks.”  
  
At that Verone’s brows quirk, intrigued, he’ll probably shoot off a question about Brian’s response later. “Customer satisfaction isn’t always top priority, so consider that a plus.”  
  
“I’m used to driving fast. As long as you’re not asking me to be a corporate lackey or do something extremely unscrupulous, then I’m cool, down for whatever really, but call me Brian.” He leaves off making a comment about how he’s not a cop anymore and doesn’t need to be addressed like one, but that may bring unnecessary friction.  
  
Verone has an office on the third highest floor of a glass and steel skyscraper nestled in the center of the avenue. Of decoration, it’s everything that Brian expects from a private company. All new art deco, glass walls, and open spaces. There are a pair of guys who look very much like the hired muscle variety that sit on the low leather couches in what appears to be a reception area. A woman at the reception desk looks very much like a real girl. She’s about average height and a thicker than the waif model print-media Miami aesthetic and smiles adoringly at her boss when he enters.  
  
Verone calls out to her as he strides through the office, “Ale, any calls?”  
  
“No, Mr. Verone.” She watches him trail in after Verone and waits for an explanation in an unobtrusive manner that only longtime subordinates can master over time.  
  
She stands in front of him with an eager smile, that’s less flirty and more genuinely friendly. “This is Brian. He’s trying out to be my new assistant.” It’s true that one can tell a lot about someone based on their handshake.  
  
Alejandra—Ale has soft smooth warm palms, but a grip as strong as any man. Her almond brown eyes shine a fierce loyal fire. What Verone did to deserve such devotion, Brian will never know.  
  
She gives him a warm smile and points to her desk. “I hope you make it. Mr. Verone is a good boss.” Ale, as he learns later, is the sole keeper of the office and her records are fairly extensive, so organized, he thinks she could have had a legitimate shot amongst the Feds if she ever put her heart into it.  
  
“I hope I make it then too,” he replies. Little does he know he’ll end up talking to Alejandra more in the next year than he’s talked to anyone in a long time.“Call it a hunch, but I think I maybe sticking around.” Flirtation colors his voice lightly and Ale catches the hint and chuckles blushingly.  
  
“I’ll be glad to have some new blood in this place.” Her eyes drift over the mountain men taking up residence out front. “Some people are just too serious.”  
  
He follows her gaze and turns back to grin at her, “I’m all for mixing things up.”  
  
She grows more comfortable, bold enough to rest her hand on his shoulder. “I hope you shake things up.” Ale almost has a conspiratorial smirk on her face and he can honestly admit liking the mischievous bent of his potential fellow employee.  
  
They’ve been under observation by Verone for the last few minutes, unbeknownst to either. “This is a good sign. Inter-office camaraderie is the stuff great business is built on. Happy employees are good employees, truly, but I need Brian for another engagement right now.” He walks out of the doorway to his office to stand between the pair. “You can probably catch Brian up on the rest of the office gossip later.”  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Verone proceeds to the elevator, sure and cocky that Brian will undoubtedly follow.  
  
Ale waves, “I’ll see you around.” It’s not a question of if or but, more like when.  
  
“I’m sure you will,” Brian replies.  
  
Verone picks their lunch site. To Brian, most Cuban restaurants in town are generally uniform, except for this one. This one is the hub for politics of the local and international type. Those who are pro and against Castro, various other military juntas, and south of the border enterprises gather here for many meals.  
  
They sit on the patio under the large stiff head of a blue and white umbrella. It’s hot even in the shade.  
  
The tryout officially begins when Verone says, “I want you to convince him,” he tilts his head in the direction of the man across the room that could be a dead ringer for Adebsi from Oz, “why he should give me his business.” He slips Brian his business card and says nothing else, signaling the end of his instructions.  
  
The man across the room seems sharp and cautious—almost dangerously so. It’s not a matter of him being aware of his physical power, but rather the power that he could exude over others.  
  
Brian drops his napkin on the table, swallows thickly, before forcing himself forward. With his brightest smile in place, he wants to portray a façade of calm and confidence. It’s all about appearance.  
  
He goes for the direct approach and says, “Hello.”  
  
The two men at the table regard each other and then him with alien looks. Of course, they don’t know him and are wondering what the hell he wants. He feels like a tool. He takes a seat without being offered one. “I was told that you may be interested in property. My boss sent me.” He points to Verone across the room, who raises his glass to their potential client.  
  
His contact pretends to not understand English, even though Brian heard them speaking it perfectly before he sat down. The rapid-fire volley of words between the two men sounds vaguely like French. “Makes me wish I paid more attention in French class.” Brian doesn’t insert the nervous laughter here. Instead, he holds their gazes and lays his cards on the table. “My boss is testing me to see if he wants to hire me or not. It’s a try-out and I’m trying to solve the problem he’s thrown at me. ”  
  
The contact, later to be known as Jean-Pierre, says something to his acting interpreter, which is translated as, “He knows that man and hates him. He wants you to give him one reason he should give your boss the time of day.”  
  
Brian mulls over the question, “Whether you like him or not doesn’t change the fact that he’s trying to do right by you in a matter of business.” It’s a very diplomatic response. It almost surprises Brian himself.  
  
Jean-Pierre and his assistant are silent, save for the clanking of their bulky diamond-encrusted necklaces sliding around their necks, as they share a silent look. Jean-Pierre regards Brian through snake eye slits and rattles off another string of bubblegum-sticky words. “Why should he care about your boss’ building? As he has already said, he could care less about that back alley dog of a boss of yours.”  
  
Brian notices the set of CDs on the table with titles that are clearly not English or possibly French from what he can see. “You like music? If you had an interest in making your own, my boss has come into some property that he needs to get off his hands. The city is riding him because they don’t want the land for residential use, but rather commercial ventures.” He can tell they’re listening by the fact that his contact hasn’t looked at his interpreter once since Brian mentioned the music.  
  
“I think,” Brian pauses, before taking a risk, “he’s willing to develop the initial building’s interior space, especially a studio area, as long as you take the building off his hands when he’s done.”  
  
The contact, intrigued, inquires, “Why do all the work and not keep it?” Like a fish on a hook, Brian has him and all he has to do is reel him in.  
  
“His business is buying and selling. He doesn’t own.” Brian says and waits.  
  
Slowly, Jean-Pierre’s hand uncurls, palm up and silently beckons for more. Brian hands over Verone’s card. “I’m sorry for whatever he did to you. I think he’s ready to move beyond that and apologize to get each of you something that you want.”  
  
Jean-Pierre takes the card and has his man give one to Brian. “Tell your boss he should hire you.”  
  
“Thanks, I’ll be sure to tell him.”  
  
Verone is waiting for him, though the bored expression on his face belies his curiosity. “That took longer than I expected?”  
  
“Why does he hate you?”  
  
Verone sits back in his chair comfortably. “Down here the World Cup is serious business. He hates me for backing Jamaica over Haiti in the last go round.”  
  
Brian salutes Jean-Pierre and crew as they walk past their table. “Well, he’s willing to work with you and I think I just got that property taken off your hands too.”  
  
“How’d you do that?” Carter asks.  
  
“I all but promised the building would be gift-wrapped for him and you’d have a studio constructed inside by the time he takes it,” Brian snags an untouched glass of water and takes a few deep swallows, “and you’ll be free of it.”  
  
Verone levels Brian with another assessing gaze. “You have to spend money to make money,” he concludes.  
  
With that he pulls out his phone and calls up Alejandra and gives her instructions on who to contact next about the construction and verifying the time the city has allotted him.  
  
Very quickly Brian comes to realize that Verone moves with a natural feline grace. His gait alternates between slinking and stalking, but rarely hurried, always under control and yet always at his leisure.  
  
Verone pays for lunch and they navigate their way out of the restaurant. The moment they are standing under the full onslaught of unadulterated Miami sunshine, Brian remembers he needs to bring his sunglasses. Verone slips his designer shades on with a smirk. Back in the car, he asks. “I’m interested in knowing what you think. Can you see yourself doing this long-term? I bet you didn’t see yourself doing this after you quit the force? So, does it seem gratifying?” Verone’s voice trailed off into a purr that matched the timbre of the Mercedes engine.  
  
It’s best if he reads between the lines. “Do I think it’s worth it, you mean?” He gets that whatever Verone’s business does is on the skim of being legal. If things were to go sideways, it would be a lot worse for him than Verone, just on the principle of the matter. But what did he really have to lose beyond his freedom?  
  
The lesson Dom taught him about quarter miles is one that colors his new decisions. He’s been in transition for a month and some change now. The way Verone’s eyes pin him into place and radiate positive expectations, Brian realizes that this is the neon sign he’s been waiting for. This is his next quarter mile.  
  
He doesn’t shrug when he answers, simply looks Verone in the eye. It’s a silent meeting of blue on blue. “Yeah.” Standing beside Verone now, watching the colors of modern life zip and move, all humming with excitement and vitality, he smiles. This is what he’s been waiting for all along.  
  
There’s Miami below and Verone to his left. “What do I have to lose?”  
  
“Nothing.” Verone’s answering grin is as soft as cotton and his words are velvet smooth and cross-stitched with diamonds. “And gain everything.” The firm hand on Brian’s shoulder transmits _there are no regrets in this life_.  
  
No more, Brian thinks.  
  
Verone takes him to a few other places around the city and shows Brian some of the properties being considered for acquisition. By the time, they finish battling the north bound traffic, the night is just settling and Miami is alive. His lips spread into a smile that reaches his eyes. It’s feels like the first time in forever. He’ll always remember it came at Verone’s urging.  
  
By observation alone Brian learns rather quickly that Verone possesses a certain kind of sleek grace. Even when dealing with clients, he’s always on the offense, never defense. Everything in Verone’s little universe runs according to his schedule and whims, though he always uses judgment in making his decisions, so calling them whims is a bit unjustified. His actions are so subtle Brian doesn’t even notice them until he throws a minor wrench in the system.

 

* * *

  
  
“To work in the business, and most importantly, to work for me, you need to look the part.” Verone handed Brian a thick card. “My tailor will be expecting you.”  
  
“I feel like Pretty Woman,” Brian said somewhat snidely.  
  
“Don’t, because you’re paying for it.” Verone grinned. “Dress to impress, O’Conner. You’re still on probation.”  
  
Verone had a thing about smacking his ass. Not necessarily grabbing it. On any other job, the gesture would have been blatant sexual harassment. With Verone, it was a general way of showing controlled affection.  
  
Carmillo’s was the kind of mom and pop operation that demonstrated the next generation could handle responsibility and make something of it. Their wares could have been seen all over the city, swathing Miami’s elite and its visiting domestic and Pan-American clientele.  
  
The current owner and lead tailor, Jose Carmillo, took one look at Brian when he walked through the door and smiled like he’d just won the lottery. “That whole Adonis-in-sackcloth thing doesn’t work too well here in Miami.”  
  
“I kinda figured that.” Brian reached the counter and didn’t flinch or shift uncomfortably under Carmillo’s scrutiny. “Mr. Verone recommended you.”  
  
The flashing light could have lit up over Carmillo’s head. Now he had ideas and direction. “We always appreciate referrals. I know just the package you’re looking for.”  
  
That package that Carmillo tailored for him included a couple of suits, a ton of shirts, and few pairs of slacks. An order like his should have set someone back at least twelve hundred. Carmillo instead offered, “I’ll give them to you for half. You’ll be better advertising than any amount of space we buy in the Herald.”  
  
In Miami, guys could wear light colors, pastel colors, like peach, coral, lavender, and aqua without having their sexuality called into question. The first time he wore the white pants Carmillo had slipped in with the rest of his order Verone slapped his ass so hard he thought he’d have bruises.  
  
He reports to work in one of his new suits. Ale wolf-whistles in appreciation. Verone’s eyes trail over Brian from head to toe. “You clean up nicely.”  
  
Brian smirks. “Thanks, and you could totally be a guest editor for GQ. You have great taste.”  
  
Verone’s eyes dart down to the papers in hand. “I think I’ll stick to my day job. It pays better.”

 

* * *

  
  
So it becomes a standard routine. Generally Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays they start the day with Brian driving to Verone’s place and driving them to the office downtown. Miami morning traffic is blissfully mild compared to the never-ending battle in L.A. Verone makes him drive the Benz, and not his rice rocket, because he says quite frankly, “You’re the professional. I might as well take advantage of your skills.” Driving Verone is nice, because he owns other cars besides the Benz; some that make the pinnacle of German engineering look like a rusted jalopy. He always begins his day with a smile on his face.  
  
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and when necessary on Saturdays, they start and finish at the house.  
  
When Verone tells him to get comfortable with the house, he means it. Days in-house, they may start off in the office, using the net to narrow the parameters of whatever they’re looking for. Verone’s a stickler for adding notes; no detail is too miscellaneous when it comes to some of his more colorful characters and he likes to remind Brian that you never know when you may need a past client for a referral or to verify information. From the office, they’ll probably end up outside on the pool deck and Rosa, the housekeeper, brings lunch.  
  
Unlike any other job he’s ever held, there are no real shop hours. Work ends essentially when Verone says it does. Sometimes, that’s three in the afternoon and Verone tosses Brian a cue and tells him he has first break, or Brian takes advantage of the picturesque quality of Verone’s pool, while Verone sits above on his balcony, pretending to be doing anything besides watching Brian’s long strokes through the water below.  
  
Sometimes Ale comes back, usually to drop off something from the office. Enrique and Roberto have the easiest jobs in the world. Essentially, they break in Verone’s furniture by sitting on it and try to defeat each other at Playstation, mostly on days when Verone plans to meet a prospective client or decides to walk the perimeter of the house and check the security feeds for the house and the Brickell office. They’re okay guys. They remind him of two big dumb mutts one of his childhood neighbors used to have, rather big and stupid, but sharp when it mattered.  
  
His job isn’t that hard, really. He scours the net for information, makes phone calls and talks to the ‘people’ of the clients. Brian makes arrangements to send them gifts of appreciation—definitely not fruit baskets and flowers, but more like bottles of Cristal and hotel suite packages in Boca or Key West.  
  
His job is so easy that the little things make the most difference. Random observation clues him into the fact that Verone takes his coffee battery-acid strong, which Brian has been known to do on occasion. It’s no big deal for him to swing by a little cafeteria and pick up a couple of coffees and a bag of pastelitos.  
  
The first time he walks through the doors with a tray of coffee and bag of pastries, he wins over Enrique and Roberto for life by having both the guava and cheese pastelitos in tow. They take down the bag fast and hard, he keeps his mouth shut with his projections of future diabetes for both and they continue to inhale those too-sweet confections.  
  
Verone analyzes him and the coffee like specimens of alien life. “You brought me coffee.”  
  
“Yeah.” Keeping incredulity out of his voice takes a lot of will. Bringing someone coffee isn’t rocket science, so Verone’s reaction is truly unjustified.  
  
Verone sips it cautiously. Brian rolls his eyes and drinks from his cup, showing that at least his isn’t poisoned. “You made it right.” Again, he leveled a hard stare at Brian. “Why?”  
  
“Why? Honestly, I drink coffee sometimes, you like coffee and you’re too lazy to make it yourself. I have eyes. Saw you drink it straight black like me and figured I couldn’t mess up ordering a second cup. So I did and now we’re up to present.”  
  
“Mmmm,” is all Carter says after another swallow. His grin peeks out from behind the cup. “Keep this up and you might become a fine secretary after all.”  
  
It becomes pretty standard from then on that Brian always brings Carter coffee. Verone is a student of human expectations and Brian bringing him coffee wasn’t quite on the list. It’s one of those simple things that clearly says not everyone is as easy to read as Verone thinks and he likes Brian shaking things up a bit.  
  
During the transition period on the new job, it’s a gross understatement to say that everything was fine, but it was. Most days, rather than not, coming to work offers excitement.


	4. Four

In doing their routine, Brian comes to realize that he really does like, make that _enjoys_ , his job. All aspects of it thus far have proven to be favorable. On any given day, he can wake up and hit the beach, swim until his shoulders are sore, grab a couple of coffees and head into work. He picks Verone up and is treated to the hidden treasure that is Verone’s infrequently used dry humor.  
  
There’s also the perk of getting to drive one of Verone’s several vehicles that can go from zero to sixty in under four seconds. Brian is definitely a fan, in this respect. In the office, he has Alejandra, who cracks him up at every turn and to some extent, Enrique and Roberto, who despite being Verone’s human guard dogs, are pretty good guys.  
  
Considering that Verone’s clients seem to walk a very fine line, certain skills from his undercover days do indeed prove to be assets. When Brian brings up the suggestion of showing Roberto and Enrique how to properly tail a car, Verone’s only response is a slight quirk of his head and the almost imperceptible intensification of his gaze. He gives his blessing in a form of a “Sure” and tells Brian he’s responsible for any damage those two may cause.  
  
That’s how he ends up picking up lunch from a little Argentinean café in Coconut Grove with Enrique and Roberto playing their spy game. Brian looks up in the rearview mirror and sees the mid-range Mercedes that’s been following him for the better part of two miles. Enrique and Roberto aren’t as subtle as they think and it’s obvious they’re amateurs at tailing someone. He’ll have to pull double duty getting those two up to par. He watches them clearly watching him. He’s more amused than pissed, though he has a right to be the latter more than the former. Verone sends out his two pet bodyguards when he’s feeling curious or genuinely paranoid, which isn’t very often.  
  
Clearly, Brian isn’t working undercover, so he doesn’t have anything to worry about, and it’s not like he’s been keeping some huge secret, except one, but he’s spilled the beans about everything else or as much as he ever does.  
  
It’s because things are going too well, perhaps. 

* * *

  
  
Whereas Dom has charisma that attracts people like gravity, Verone does the opposite. He moves to everyone else and waits to see when they’ll pull back. He tries with Brian in the form of constantly violating his personal space by standing so close that their arms feel glued along the seams. Since Brian is the most available member of their little bunch, he’s the one that receives most of Verone’s attention.  
  
Verone hovers around Brian, brushes close, or touches him in subtle ways. The location of the touch depends on the situation. A meeting may get a pat on the shoulder or a brush of the arm. A brush of the leg while sitting. A modicum of privacy gets a hand on the small of Brian’s back and Verone’s hands fit spectacularly well there.  
  
They’re so subtle that even Ale wouldn’t complain if they were directed at her. When Brian is forced to go to the house more and more, Verone takes advantage of that time too. His hands make a deliberate slide south of the small of Brian’s back to the definite curve of his ass. No longer slapping, more like holding. Brian looks at him in question to which Verone replies with a nonchalant expression. Most red-blooded males would start throwing punches, but Brian’s always been the unusual sort.  
  
A little sexual harassment is inappropriate, but not necessarily a bad thing.  
  
“I’m not your bitch.” Brian says after the first time Verone’s hand glues itself to his ass.  
  
“No,” Verone smirks. “Just my secretary.”  
  
The touches don’t escalate from there. They stagnate at a generalized level of flirtation and standard violations of workplace behavior. Verone’s actions are challenges to see what he can do to make Brian blink. Brian’s not the squeamish type when it comes to male on male flirtation. He’d be a big damn hypocrite for making a big deal of every little touch when he’s 1)definitely carrying a secret torch for another guy, 2) has experimented on both sides of the fence and has found that he likes both, and 3) Verone is undeniably attractive.  
  
He catches Verone’s furtive glances that dare try to figure him out. He won’t get much from the surface, though Brian is getting more amendable to possibly talking it out. They straddle a fine line that skirts the boundaries between a friendly game of gay chicken and heated flirtation.  
  
Brian never pictured himself the type to sleep with his boss, but Verone is a different sort of boss man. He provokes Brian to get a reaction and Brian doesn’t necessarily want to continue backing off and shying away. He has always been drawn to danger and thrills, and Verone represents everything that Brian has ever wanted out of life in one nice neat package, barely contained within the trappings of civility and GQ-cool style.  
  
It’s inevitable that there is a shift from “O’Conner” to “Brian” and “Verone” becomes “Carter”. That step opens a world of possibilities.  
  
Friday night in mid-December, the night air in Miami is still hot and thick, while the rest of the country freezes their asses off from the early winter snaps coming through. Carter is hard at work behind his desk, reading import and export reports, and cross-checking new shipments with potential items his clients may want for the holiday season or for personal luxury.  
  
Brian is stretched out across his couch doing much of the same. Though his lists are strictly related to cars and some of the available listings would make even the hardest-hearted car aficionado weep out of sheer want. He has a three more pages to go before he’ll be done, but it’s the type of thing that can wait and be done first thing Monday. He has more pressing matters, like the last race of the season.  
  
From Tej’s description, the race the next night is like Race Wars on a smaller, local scale. That doesn’t mean that the competition will be easy to pick off because they’re local. He has a few things he needs to check before tomorrow, like, his plugs and the fuel injection, and the superficial things like adding a couple of decals to the spoiler. All things best done before the race.  
  
He skims through the remaining pages, after making up his mind to call it a night. To anyone else, this scene will suggest that Carter isn’t paying Brian the slightest bit of attention as he prepares to leave for the night, but Carter is very much aware that Brian is leaving.  
  
His eyes are still on the assorted papers strewn across his desk, when he asks, “You’re cutting out on me?”  
  
“Yeah,” Brian says. “I’ve got a couple of things to check on before tomorrow night.” They have already had a talk about Brian’s racing. Though Carter likes buying fast cars and undeniably testing them out, he thinks Brian’s extracurricular activity is simply stupid. They’ve butted heads on a few different occasions when Carter has deigned to make disparaging remarks about Brian’s baby, the Skyline. Brian calls Carter an old man, who has lost his grasp on his youth in response.  
  
Their argument remains at a stalemate, at least verbally, it is. Though Brian knows Carter likes the way he drives and derives direct benefit from Brian’s experience as a racer. He even uses Tej as a consultant and go-between when verifying foreign and domestic trades.  
  
“Good luck with not getting a ticket or dying,” Carter drawls sarcastically. There goes the sharp infusion of Carter’s dry humor. Underneath the surliness is genuine concern, or at least that is what Ale tells Brian. He’s pretty sure that she’s right.  
  
Brian hovers at the edge of Carter’s desk. “I’ll try. I know how much you’d hate that.”  
  
To which Carter nods, “It’s true what they say about good help. It is hard to find. Plus, I’d have to fire you if you die.”  
  
Brian smirks and concedes the point. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” He winks down at Carter, thinking of a way to push Carter into going. “You could come, you know.”  
  
“Youth is wasted on the young. It shouldn’t be.” He shrugs. “I have work anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”  
  
He says youth is wasted like he’s never been young. Carter Verone by definition is an old soul, and a good look at his eyes will prove it. Tonight, Carter isn’t biting, so Brian proceeds with his first course of action. “I’ll take into consideration all the pieces of advice you’ve given me.” Brian mock-salutes. “Thanks again.”  
  
Brian heads to the door with his keys and sports jacket in hand. “Go fast, alright. I hear you can’t win if you don’t,” Carter calls out from behind him. He has Carter’s full attention for the moment and enjoys it completely. Savors it. He likes this feeling of having something to do and someone to share it with, even for a fleeting moment in time. It’s different than he’s used to and it’s something he can wholly come to look forward to.  
  
“Always.” He smiles, before departing for other things.  
  
Carter sighs, “I guess that means I should keep you busier.”

 

* * *

  
  
The one time he does wreck, Carter is there.  
  
Sometimes Carter deigns to come with him. He stands out like a glacier against the shores of a tropical island, the living personification of Brian’s mythic ice cool. Chicas flock to him with the same instinct that ducks have to fly south when a chill enters the air. Racers watch him with sharp eyes that try to figure out who he is under the suave and stern façade. He’s Brian’s wingman, who brings way less mouth and more danger as his promoter.  
  
Because they stick together like glue, Carter ends up finding his way into Brian’s other circle. Tej knows how to operate with all kinds of people, from racers to non, and he and Carter strike up a working relationship; one like all the rest that hinges upon business mostly. Tej can supply services, while Carter offers clients and sometimes, the reverse applies. Simply put, they hit it off like rice and beans.  
  
Carter can offer the kinds of clients who want their fast playthings to go even faster. Tej in return gets to work on a bunch of Italian, German and British ladies that sing to him in the finest of fine-tuned operatic melodies. Everyone wins.  
  
So it’s not all that unusual to see Carter waiting at the finish line for Brian to cross. Tonight, he’s up against four other racers: a Mustang, an Eclipse, a Sunfire, and a Civic that looked remarkably like the ones Dom used in the heist. He knows all of the drivers, at least in passing, save for the Eclipse.  
  
The route is pretty standard. It starts near the abandoned docks at the Port of Miami, then flows through the streets up to the extension for I-75 until A1A, and back through the outskirts of the less glamorous parts of Miami Beach and the Fashion District until they reach the port again.  
  
It is in between the final half mile and the finish line when the Eclipse clips his tail and the Skyline goes fishtailing through the thankfully empty streets. Brian spins the steering wheel to follow the path of the car’s momentum, but keeping control of a car traveling at a buck ten is much harder than it seems. The Skyline hits the plastic construction barrels head on, pivots and slams backward into a streetlight.  
  
Lucky is what he is. The Skyline is wrecked, totaled like a wad of gum beneath a shoe. His vision darts in and out with black and white stars, patches of color that grow whenever he turns his head. Brian ends up with cuts and bruises mostly, a lot of nausea and the obligatory dislocated shoulder that kills him before and after it is set.  
  
Brian remembers the frontal impact and the second hit to the rear, but after that his memory is kind of splotchy. When he finally comes back to himself, Carter is leaning over him, giving him a look that is equal parts _I’m glad you’re okay_ and _you are so fucking stupid_ and he hands Brian a fresh ice pack.  
  
“Don’t expect me to play nursemaid, Speed Racer,” Carter says, as he sits on the bed beside Brian.  
  
A slow smile spreads over his face as his facial muscles twinge as a result of the hard collision. His accident is an example of physics in action. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”  
  
“The Eclipse driver---what a _pendejo_. Tej didn’t pay him. Idiot almost got jumped by a bunch of your hood-rat friends.” Carter smiles as he says this. “I would have led the charge, but someone had to get your giggly ass out of the car.”  
  
“My car?” Brian asks, though his question is garbled beneath the ice pack.  
  
“You don’t want to know.”  
  
His entire body hurt, so much so that he welcomes the stark darkness of sleep. Carter is there almost every time he opens his eyes. His expression transitions from angry to wholly satisfied. It’s not until weeks later when he asks Tej about the dude that hit him that he hears some outrageous story about a bucket, a blowtorch, a rat, and a band of ninjas that stole this guy off the street for being an unfair cheat.  
  
Brian doesn’t react as he formerly would have. Though he knows almost instantly that Carter is the one that did it. He has cracked just enough that he’s only glad that he doesn’t have to see it. There’s no denying that he knows what Carter has done is eight kinds of illegal and dangerous, but the part of him that has always been loose and unashamedly reckless is all about the thrill of making adrenaline pump through his veins is all for it. The shiver down his spine comes from recognizing that Carter had done it for him doesn’t help him to be more rational.  
  
When he’s better, Carter tosses him the keys to the Bentley and makes him drive over to Miami Beach. Parrot Jungle Island is surprisingly fun.

 

* * *

  
  
They’re driving up Old Cutler. It’s easy to become enthralled by the homes along the route, surprisingly moderate priced mansions that sit far away from the street and surrounded by the dense tropical foliage that makes South Florida the metropolitan paradise that it is. Old Cutler is one of the few scenic routes in the ever-industrially developing Miami. It is long and out of the way in comparison to all roads leading to the heart of the city, and where people like them need to be.  
  
Carter is prone to making Brian stop here and there whenever he feels like it. This time, Brian’s attention wanders to the explosions of red, pink, and orange flowers that are still in bloom through the tail-end of winter that has a stranglehold over everything north of Orlando. With all the flora, it’s a miracle that he hasn’t developed some sort of allergy or suffocating hay fever.  
  
Carter slides into the car with practiced ease and passes him a peeled half of a juicy ripe tangerine. He’s got a plastic sack full of tangerines, lychees and a couple of mangoes. Bless South Florida—an American city with a Latino-Caribbean soul and sidewalk fruit carts to prove it.  
  
Brian licks the sweet juice from his thumb when Carter speaks. “You work all the time, Brian, when was the last time you had a girlfriend?” The question comes out of nowhere.  
  
Mia was the last one. Brian shrugs silently, keeping his eyes on the road.  
  
Carter spits a seed or two out of the window and smiles when he clears the glass. “Boyfriend?” Brian can roll with a round of gay chicken, but he’s not going to react if that’s what Carter wants.  
  
Brian’s responses is another identical shrug. “Nope.” His love life has been nothing but high and dry.  
  
Carter makes a satisfied sound and says nothing else for the remainder of the trip. He eats a lychee and sits back like the smuggest son of a bitch in the universe. 

* * *

  
They have disagreements, of course, but they never fight.  
  
Not until they meet Arturo Braga.  
  
Carter is introduced to Braga through a murky chain of acquaintances that equates to a friend of friend in shadier terms. In order to have any potential business conversations, the two parties meet up at whatever club is the flavor of the month.  
  
This month, it’s Vapor.  
  
A club mired in modern Scandinavian aesthetics and candles surrounded by dry ice fog. In Brian’s opinion, the appeal is definitely limited. He may be biased because Braga turns out to be the worst of the worst that he’s met in their line of work.  
  
They’re ensconced in a club full of drinking happy people, basking in the revelry of the environment and the beautiful milieu surrounding them. Verone draped in his standard dark hues—purple this night and Brian in white and tan and purely delicious from the looks being sent his way.  
  
Often Brian can see similarities between Verone and the company he keeps. Most of the people, the majority really, are genuinely nice people with far too much time and money on their hands. They make Verone necessary because as Brian realizes that they prove the adage true—idle hands do the devil’s work.  
  
As Verone whispers in his ear, and warm breath rolls across his skin and he has to stifle a mild shiver. “This room--” He huffs playfully, “could make the World Court very happy.” He leads Brian around the room with his eyes. Each face is memorized and slips into his memory with the same ease a domino falls to gravity.  
  
Verone raises his glass in mock salute to the room. “Unlike the president, I have an exit strategy, when needed.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.” His breath carries the distinct smell of fine alcohol with the barest hint of fruit. “A rat is one of the smartest animals alive. What makes it so is that it will do anything to survive. A phone call is a phone call until the FBI or Interpol are on the other end. That’s why business stays business and you don’t venture into things that aren’t your concern.”  
  
Braga has the type of appeal that would attract someone who doesn’t know better. He oozes danger and destruction and makes Brian itch to arrest him. In an attempt to make him look the part, Braga and crew are outfitted in black leather, a stupid fashion decision if Brian has ever seen one, especially in Miami.  
  
Braga’s right hand man could potentially be quite handsome, if not for the perpetual sneer on his face. He has a nasty habit of caressing his gold tooth with his tongue. Fenix is his name, even worse than the spelling is the train wreck of the first and last names put together—Fenix Rise; later revealed to be Fenix Calderon.  
  
Fenix maintains steady eye contact with Brian for the duration of the evening; alternating mostly between giving him the hairy eyeball and smirking at him like the world’s dumbest-looking cat with a canary it is grasp. Enrique and Roberto are sitting just out of range, which is too far away in Brian’s estimation.  
  
Braga sits across from Carter, going through his spiel about his mythic ascent from the streets to be some hole in the wall’s savior. Yes, yes, his story in parts can only rival Scarface in its epic proportions. He still manages to radiate a smarminess that Brian hopes Cater will see right through.  
  
“As you are a man that can get things, I doubt that I need to say anything about being quiet in searching for what I need.”  
  
“I’d say you’re right.” Carter doesn’t need the ground rules for navigating semi-scrupulous business dealings.  
  
“What I need isn’t all that common, but I’m assured you can get them nonetheless.”  
  
Carter shrugs and drinks his scotch, pauses as it burns going down his throat. “The sooner you tell me what you need, the sooner I go about getting it.”  
  
“People,” Braga explains, “actually, I need drivers. I need assistance in transport.”  
  
Braga wears faux concern like the dancers on the floor wear tiny strips of clothing pretending to be their costumes. He’s oily and slick, and Brian has a seriously bad feeling about him. Usually he can hold his cool but need, necessity, instinct make him interrupt, earning looks from Carter and Braga alike.  
  
Brian asks, “What happens to the drivers after you’re done?” If Carter wants to use his connection to the scene to recruit drivers for whatever little deal that Braga is working on, he’ll find more resistance than he bargained for. Because Brian doesn’t play chess with people. Never again, he promises. “I mean, we offer services that are mainly things—not people, in a sense.” He can feel Verone looking at him.  
  
“They make out like thieves.” Braga laughs indulgently. It’s so smarmy that Brian would actually have to possess the low IQ that stereotypes his hair color in order to not know that Braga was being extraordinarily facetious. “They should probably be paying me.”  
  
Bullshit, Brian thinks. Brian’s eyes flick from Carter to Braga, remaining on the latter. “Well, if it’s my word that makes this go or not, I want to make sure everything is on the level.”  
  
Braga regards him with twinkling eyes, dangerous eyes and that grin he bore across his face shrinks ever so slightly as he turns to face Verone. “¿ _Su pajaro tiene cojones, no_?” He has enough restraint to not jump across the table and smack the arrogance off Braga’s face. The hand that plants itself on his thigh confirms that Verone knew exactly what he wanted to do and this was his means of staying Brian’s impulsive hand.  
  
Verone shrugs, though his jaw flares, tight enough to crack walnuts. “He has an eye for detail.”  
  
“I hope you see the details for what they are.” Braga says, looking entirely too amused.  
  
“It’s business.” Verone acknowledges. “Just business.” Braga in return looks triumphant as he raises his glass to toast. The grip on Brian’s thigh locks into a full on squeeze. This debate is far from over. Brian drinks because he’ll do something stupid if he doesn’t.  
  
Braga’s self-assured smile along with another drained bottle of Cristal brings the night to a close. Fenix follows his boss, wearing the sense of haughty satisfaction that his boss had just moments ago. They merge into the crowd of writhing bodies and fade away like vapor in the sun.  
  
Carter holds up a finger to preclude Brian from speaking again. He smiles at their model- gorgeous waitress when he orders another finger of scotch and says nothing to Brian until he finishes it. His anger is obvious; Carter almost vibrates with it. “Let’s go,” he says and rises stiff backed from their booth, exiting without saying another word to Brian.  
  
They are headed for an explosion, a perfect storm of righteous indignation, which will undoubtedly lead to yelling and a broken piece of furniture or two. So Brian drives back to Carter’s house and waves Roberto and Enrique off, once Carter unlocks the door.  
  
Maybe it’s been too long since he’s had a fight, because his anger is piqued and can easily be corralled into a more manageable level, but he just doesn’t want to do it. Brian knows that he is right, and in that respect, he has no problem arguing his point, because going in on anything—drivers, cars, paintings, hell, groceries, with Braga will prove to be the dumbest move that Carter, and by extension Brian, can make.  
  
He finds Carter in the den, making his way to the bar for another drink. Brian sits of the sofa and waits for Carter to make his move. He can be annoyed by that too, having to wait for Carter, but then again that is his job.  
  
Carter finishes his drink and paces the floor, only to finally stop in front of Brian. His jacket pulls back as he places his hands on his hips. It’s a pose of authority. A carousel of bosses and mothers spins in his head; in the end, they’re all the same anyway. “I like that you have a good head on your shoulders. Not many people can think on their feet and still make the most of it. Your mouth though,” he says after a gust of exasperated breath and a minor shake of his head, “could be classified as a goddamn nuclear weapon.”  
  
Now the anger is pouring through in steady trickles.  
  
Brian looks up at him from his seat on the couch, eyes locking together, the fire in his own translating to a refusal to be sorry. “You told him loud and clear that we deal in goods and services. Not people. We make connections to other people, but we don’t get _them_ people and I’m sure as hell not going to introduce anyone I know to a scuzzball like Braga.”  
  
“You don’t get to make that call.” Verone crouches down until he’s almost nose to nose with Brian, his blue eyes looking black with the tide of his fury. “You don’t get to make that call and you certainly don’t get to make the call with someone like Braga,” he barely grits between his teeth. “I don’t like to ass-kiss, O’Conner, but you’ve put me in a fuckin’ rotten position. You gotta learn to pick your battles better.”  
  
Isn’t that what he’s always been told? Isn’t that how he lived up until now? By picking battles and taking paths that take him to solutions to shitty opportunities. If Verone is looking for an apology, he’s going to be waiting a fucking long time. He wasn't going to get one. So Brian digs in his heels.  
  
He juts his chin and scoots just fractionally closer to Verone, to show that the same righteous fire is blazing in his eyes too. “You don’t see the same things I do. Everything we do is only marginally legal. That’s fine as long as business remains legal for all intents and purposes. Maybe you just can’t see things the way I can. Fenix--” Braga’s personal bodyguard and chief thug smirked at Brian the whole night. Definitely not subtle and not in the least meek and mild, tattooed and pierced with the customary single gold tooth that he proceeded to lick all night that in simple English spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e.  
  
“He’s just…a step away from being a bad Oz inmate. Around a guy like him, you have to watch your back, front, and sides.” The cultivated brand of sociopathic tendencies that radiates from Fenix takes Brian back to meeting Lance Tran. Like is to like no matter what the point of origin.  
  
Verone stands, crouching too long has worn hard on his knees. “Sometimes you have to deal with the risks of the job. This isn’t like a fuckin’ television show. I keep Enrique and Roberto around, and hell, even you, because you’re capable of dealing if shit goes south. The fuck do you think this is? Miami Vice?” A life so glamorous is equal parts dangerous.  
  
Any hold on his calm has long since been loosened. “I get that. I’m not stupid.”  
  
Carter throws his hands up, “You sure acted that way tonight.” _A hard blow._  
  
Brian shakes his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. Maybe this has been a bad idea from the start. He has a tendency to get starstruck and not realize it until it’s too late. He picks up his jacket off the arm of the sofa and prepares to leave. His end of the argument is almost over. Almost, because Brian can’t walk away from a fight.  
  
“I think I’m done, but before I go I wanted to make sure you saw them.”  
  
“Saw who… and where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Verone moved closer to block his exit.  
  
Brian chooses to ignore the latter part of the question. “A suit is always going to be a suit. No matter how much training and experience they’re given. I counted five different sets of eyes on our table tonight. None of them were the least bit interested in us before Braga showed up. The whole talking-into-their-glass and trying to look inconspicuous while looking around conspicuously were the big tip-offs.”  
  
The gravity of the situation ratchets up several notches and both of them need a drink, though alcohol can only make this confrontation infinitely worse. “Locals?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Brian tells him.  
  
“Little shit.” Verone utters behind his hand as he paces, which coincides with him trying to think of a plan.  
  
Huffing out a deep breath, Brian tries to rein in his anger. He’s failing miserably. “Whatever, I’m done. I’m going home.”He makes a move to stand, but Carter isn’t having it.  
  
Carter clutches his chin and brings Brian’s face close for deeper inspection. “If you want to get fired, all you have to do is say so.”  
  
Brian’s eyes blazes defiance. “No,” he grits through his teeth. He still has adrenaline pumping through his veins, aimed at destruction and recklessness. “I quit.”  
  
The fight begins with Verone grabbing Brian’s wrist to stop him, which Brian shakes off. Verone moves to latch on to him again and Brian tries to squirm out of his reach. They end up on the floor as Verone propels him forward. The sounds of their scuffle are the rapid fire clicks and scuffs of their shoes against the tile and the grunts and hisses from each landed blow. Brian manages to elbow Verone in the side and flip them over. Verone’s hand still has a death grip on Brian’s wrist. Some of the one-armed punches Brian throws are surprisingly blocked by Verone.  
  
Carter hauls him up to his feet eyes shining with rage and body coiled tight to unleash another hit; instead, their lips are sealed and Carter’s tongue sweeps over Brian’s lip to sweep away the blood.  
  
Brian’s jaw ticks in reflex.  
  
Verone whips around on Brian. “We’re not done.” With legs apart, it’s a posture that indicates he’s ready and equipped to use that feline grace to keep Brian here if need be.  
  
“Well, I am,” Brian says a little louder and sharper.  
  
“I say when you can go. I say when you can quit.” Each word is punctuated by the silent stalk Verone makes. “Remember I’m the goddamn boss and you’re my fucking secretary.”  
  
“I won’t forget from now on. I think I learned that lesson well enough.” Sarcasm drips from every word. “But that doesn’t change the fact that when I say I’m done…I’m done.”  
  
The floor provides no traction and Brian’s head bumps against its base of the couch. Sure, it’s a pussy move to use the pillows but he goes for it and smacks Verone in the face a few times with one. Verone releases his wrist for a split second and Brian begins to kick-flutter away. He doesn’t make it far, as Verone grabs his hips and pulls his legs akimbo like a wishbone.  
  
The thumb over his right cheek strokes the bruises that are already starting to swell. Brian is focused on Carter’s eyes too much to notice the fist that will nail him above the same spot. The stressed seam of his lip breaks and the copper salty taste of spilled over his lips.  
  
He ends up with his legs wrapped around Verone’s waist and their hands twisted above his head. He’s worked his way up to biting when Verone rocks forward, driving his crotch flush against Brian’s, and the kicker is that Verone’s hard.  
  
All the subtle flirting and genteel sexual harassment has exploded into this. He still bites Verone, on the neck and not for long as Verone cants his hips thrusting up. Brian’s head thumps against the tile and his mouth is open in a silent howl. The friction is optimal and Verone works it to his advantage driving his hips harder and faster against Brian. For his part, Brian hooks his ankles together to provide more leverage.  
  
Sometime before the explosion of orgasm, Verone finds his mouth and as with everything else, just takes control. Lips plundering and tongue searching, in his mind’s eye, Brian knows his lips are bruised pink, bloody and swelling to whore classification. Verone does the same to his jaw and neck, breathing like a race horse between every sloppy kiss.  
  
It’s been some time. A long time since Brian has had someone make him feel this way, ride his body so spectacularly. All that anger mixes with lust and surges forth with adrenaline. He bites Verone again, this time on the corner of his jaw as he comes. He notes that Verone is one of the few people that doesn’t make a ridiculous face when coming.  
  
Verone lies on top of him trying to catch his breath. He feels way more lustful and only slightly less angry. Of course, Brian punches Verone with his now free hand and storms out when Verone tries to kiss him again, because he’s still angry.

 

* * *

  
  
The next day is a mental health day in the truest sense.  
  
His minor aches and pains agree fully.  
  
The sun transitions from early to afternoon with Brian nursing the bruises and scratches with a bag of frozen peas as Maury Povich reveals the results of another string of paternity tests. For a fight, the one with Carter the night before is by no means one of his best; it is one of his strangest and undoubtedly hottest.  
  
Bruises and cuts don’t bother him, especially after a hard-won fight. Though he does wince a bit, embarrassed that most of the marks Verone leaves on him are purple bruises that blossom like flowers over his neck.  
  
His place, which that had been surprisingly clean because of his general absence, is beginning to collect empty Corona bottles like vagrants. The buzz and the occasional roll of applause from the television keeps him rather sedate.  
  
He’s already making new plans since he’s technically out of a job.  
  
The fancy little work cell from Verone starts buzzing and sliding across the low top of the coffee table in front of him. It dances a little shimmy between the bottles until it finally surrenders to voicemail.  
  
Of course, he doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t have to, not when his personal phone starts screaming away by his bed. That one is buried in a bedside drawer and Brian has no intention of hauling it out now.  
  
Thinking about last night, he realizes that it was just plain stupid. A disagreement turns into an argument that escalates into a fight, which turns into a wrestling match and finally dry humping on the floor. He hasn’t done the latter since the age of 15 and a couple of stolen beers and a joint too many with Rome.  
  
His head begins to buzz from the incessant ringing of the phones rather than the steady intake of alcohol over the course of Martha Stewart, Judge Judy, and Oprah. Despite the beer, his stomach growls and he takes the opportunity to lay off the alcohol for his liver’s sake for the time being.  
  
Since there’s no actual food in the house besides the now-melted bag of peas and some cans of tuna and little more beer, he opts to quickly brush his teeth and shower, before slipping on a ratty pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and his favorite pair of Chucks. It’s the first time he’s looked like himself in a while, and not the Miami-L.A. glam facsimile.  
  
The short trip to the grocery story is a mental exercise and a concerted effort to move his tired limbs. The drive alone gives him something to focus on other than the fight. He buys ready- to-eat food from the deli and plenty of other foodstuffs that have zero alcoholic content, including vegetables. He can see the internal debate within the cashier, who’s deciding to either look past him or flirt. She sneaks him a heated look and offers up a flirty smile at the last minute. He returns the grin, though it’s tamer than usual as his jaw still aches a little.  
  
Asshole, he thinks. Verone will see that he’s right. In fact, Brian recalls that’s the reason Verone hired him in the first place.  
  
The drive back to the houseboat takes all of five minutes. The streets thin out around this time. Most people either home for the night or almost there. He’s been smiling inside for the last few minutes, because of the sheer ridiculousness of the situation and to top it, he’s also broken a few traffic laws for the hell of it. He can’t make it too easy.  
  
Brian parks in front of the houseboat and waits. One last look in the rearview mirror before he gets out of the car and pulls his groceries out the backseat, he waves to Enrique and Roberto and gives them a big smile on purpose. They actually look slightly embarrassed to have been caught. It’s almost cute.  
  
Once inside, he has enough time to put up groceries before the phone rings again. This time though Brian’s annoyed enough to answer.  
  
“You’re having me followed.”  
  
“And?” Carter says, not sounding the least bit surprised.  
  
“And? My question is why?”  
  
“Dealing with the type of people that we do…it’s wise to have someone looking out for you when your secretary doesn’t call or show up for work in the morning.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter anyway. I told you I was done last night.”  
  
“And I said you weren’t. We have things to discuss.” He sighs. “Including that punch you threw after I rocked your goddamn world.”  
  
“What? You miss me already?” He walks out on to the back deck of the boat and watches the sunset. “Last night proves that you can soar to new heights in the sexual harassment department.”  
  
“You liked it,” Verone responds. “I’ll give you through tomorrow, but answer your damn phone when I call.”  
  
“I’m done,” Brian repeats coolly.  
  
Verone chortles. “I hear the words, but I don’t believe that even you believe them….Like I said, we have unfinished business.”  
  
The sudden shift of his voice into a low register, almost a purr, and his cocksure attitude has Brian beginning to waver.  
  
With the same certainty that the sun will rise in the east and set in the west, Brian will always be a sucker for a deep voice.

  
  


* * *

  
  
Tomorrow comes far too soon.  
  
It’s not like he plans to sneak off his houseboat. It is his house after all, so he has no qualms about coming and going as he pleases. He should have expected the sight he walks out to; one of Carter leaning against the side of his car, looking equal parts pissed and satisfied at the shock that rolls across Brian’s face.  
  
Brian walks out onto the deck and stops by the rail, keeping a safe distance from Carter, who doesn’t seem to respect the idea. He eases away from the car and walks with hands stuffed in his pockets up the plank leading to the deck. He shakes his head, “This is shameful. I certainly pay you enough to live better than this.” Behind his dark shades, he regards the houseboat with a look of mocking disdain.  
  
“I like it.”  
  
Carter acts like he doesn’t hear him. “Take the day off.”  
  
“Why?” Brian snorted. “Remember I quit.”  
  
Behind his sunglasses, Brian could practically see Carter rolling his eyes. Ignoring his previous statement, Carter says, “Pack up this piece of shit and move into the house. It doesn’t make sense to live here; especially with all the room I’ve got.”  
  
“Why would I want to move in with you? I have my own space for a reason and you have yours.” Brian rests his back against the side of the boat. A sly smile spreads across his face, the proverbial light bulb goes off over his head. “I guess you like having your booty on call.” He says with a smirk.  
  
Still unfazed, Carter replies, “Maybe you like yours that way too.” His steps up the plank are slow and deliberate. Each footfall is calculated like a predator stalking his prey, Carter closes in on Brian, his lips curled in a smile. A self-satisfied look that will prove to be hard to dismay. “You keep saying no, O’Conner, but sometimes--” he tugs Brian’s collar down view purple bruise on made specifically by Carter’s mouth. “As they say, ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and I’m sure as hell you enjoyed what we did.”  
  
Brian smacks Carter’s hand away. “Yeah, I enjoyed knocking some sense into you.”  
  
“You’re lucky you got that one. As I keep saying, you’re special.” He invades Brian’s personal space, his arms forming a living barricade between Brian and the boat. “If someone else did what you did, rest assured they would be dead.” His bottom lip grazes the outer slope of Brian’s ear, dragging slow and gentle like a feather before he speaks again. “So now, you’re going in there and you’ll start packing your shit. If you need help, Enrique and Roberto will help you; though I doubt you really want those two tramping through your place. And you and I both know,” he nuzzles the rough plain of Brian’s shadowed jaw, “that you want this as much as I do. Why else would you be so receptive to my other overtures?”  
  
Carter backs off then. “You know when dinner is, so plan to be there.” He stalks down the plank much faster than he came up, leaving Brian to watch him leave. As always Carter makes his plans and expects others to adhere to them.  
  
“Fuck you, Carter,” Brian says out of spite. His words are loud enough for Carter to hear.  
  
He barks out a roll of laughter. “I’m planning on it, baby. Waiting for it, actually.” Carter offers further evidence. “We work ridiculous hours. It doesn’t make sense to schlep across the city to sleep on your dinghy on the Miami River.”  
  
“Are you offering to let me dock my dinghy out back?” Brian asks.  
  
“No,” Carter shrugged. “You should cut your losses with the boat and move in. I’ll have Rosa set up a room.”  
  
“If I say no…”  
  
Carter smirked. “You won’t.” The devastating final blow. 

* * *

  
  
Their relationship is a convoluted mixture of right and wrong.  
  
When Brian moves into the house, he doesn’t move into any of the spare bedrooms available. He wastes a good half an hour looking for the stuff he moved himself early that day before Rosa steers him up to Carter’s bedroom on the third floor and shows him the few things that she couldn’t unpack and settle into the closet.  
  
Should it surprise him that Carter is this bold? Like not letting what they will do remain secret, but instead is framing it as a perk of the job. Carter plans to settle Brian right in the master suite with him. Leaving no doubts why he’s there. In some places, having shelf space was the equivalent of declaring eternal love and devotion.  
  
Carter comes up later and spends his time watching Brian unpack. He seems pretty relaxed in his position by the doorway. When Brian asks about their arrangement again, Carter simply says, “I see why you were a bad cop. If Braga’s nursing a grudge then he wouldn’t even need to flip though the white pages to find you. That much should be obvious.”  
  
He can understand that.  
  
This is the climax of gay chicken. Carter moved Brian into his house, literally into his bed, and Brian has to make the final decision. Should he take what’s being offered to him? An official place with Carter, space in his closets, and more importantly in his bed?  
  
Carter is supine on the bed with his arms behind his head and his crisp lines of his pants twisted together down at the ankles. He is the picture of sophisticated relaxation. The California King he lies upon with its ridiculously high thread count sheets are an even greater enticement.  
  
Brian’s things are almost all put anyway. Even though Rosa manages to nearly unpack all of his stuff, Brian will somehow inadvertently play hide and go seek in an effort to find most of it. When this happens, Carter will be very amused.  
  
Brian toes off his shoes. His feet sink into the plush white carpet that covers the master suite’s floor. It’s lush and decadent. He strides over to the bed, stopping just short of the edge and just eyes Carter.  
  
Carter unfolds his arms from behind his head. “You coming or going?” he asks, like what he’s offering is the simplest proposition in the world.  
  
Brian has already thrown caution to the wind several times within the last year and a half, starting with leaving L.A. and reinventing his life from top to bottom in Miami. Carter licks his lips. This is what Brian wants and so he shall get.  
  
Brian answers by straddling Carter’s Brooks Brothers covered lap. He leans forward until his mouth hovers just out of reach of Carter’s. “I’m staying,” he offers.  
  
Carter’s lips are like the rest of him, truly perfect. They move to the speed of passion, fast and hard. It becomes Brian’s mission to rumple this perfect bed and drive Carter mad.  
  
Yes, he starts with his shirt, pulling it overhead and tossing it on the floor. Next is Carter’s, whose buttons spray across the bed. The moment is all about the rush of adrenaline, hands and the intense feeling of satisfaction. Carter let Brian have control of their kissing, allowed Brian to plunder his mouth and nip and suck at his neck, but he moves them into the positions that he wants. Ending up with Brian on his back, shirtless with his jeans unzipped and well on their way to sliding off his legs.  
  
Carter rocks against him with sheer urgency and plays Brian’s body like a symphony conductor. Brian, competitive as he is, holds Carter into place by looking his long legs around Carter’s hips, essentially cradling him.  
  
What transpires between handfuls of grabbed hair and gasping breaths is the best orgasm Brian can recall in recent memory. It’s torn from him as he turns his head to the side, allowing Carter to bury his face in the crook of Brian’s neck and suck the life out of his raging pulse point. Like a few nights prior, they are still dressed and the force of Carter’s dick grinding against Brian’s is enough to make him come like a freight train barreling down a lonely set of railroad tracks.  
  
“Jesus,” he gasps they continue to rock against each other.  
  
Carter mouths words against Brian’s neck. The simultaneous chill and heat of his breath ignites the sweat-cooled surface of Brian’s skin. In a couple of minutes, he’ll be ready to go again. If Carter adds a little tongue to his ministrations, Brian will be ready sooner than that. “That too,” Carter smiles and nips the underside of his jaw. “You’re off the rest of the day.”  
  
Slits of blue peek out between Brian’s sleepy lashes. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Carter amends. “We’ve got a lot of bed to mess up too.” Carter peels Brian’s jeans the rest of the way down and tosses his socks too. “Might as well get naked now. You won’t be needing clothes for a while.”

 

* * *

  
  
Brian can count the number of men he’s had sex with, not within any specific time period, more as cumulative number of experiences. There are also guys who he will always think of as missed opportunities. Chiefly among them is Dom.  
  
His mind does not stray to Dom while Carter gets him good and ready, fingers him open with blunt digits that are more hurried than gentle, and he most certainly does not think of Dom when Carter pushes in and makes him breathless. Carter’s dick is just like the rest of him, strong willed and determined. He makes Brian hold on and try to catch up as he drives in and out at a jackrabbit’s pace.  
  
Brian wraps his arms around Carter’s shoulders, hitches his legs higher and clings tighter with each thrust. It’s as if Carter has x-ray vision with the frequency that he rubs against Brian’s prostate.  
  
An encounter like this would have broken all of Brian’s previous rules. He doesn’t bottom often, if ever. He rarely gets off from frottage alone. As a bed partner, Carter is spinning his head right around. Brian’s dick has been trapped between them, being teased by their friction. Without saying anything coherent, Carter reaches for Brian’s dick and applies the perfect amount about pressure and jerks him off. Carter’s palm is hot and slick with sweat moves fast enough to compliment the main tide of strokes that are working Brian up from the inside.  
  
To be sold on Carter anymore than he already is would be impossible. He comes all over Carter’s hand and his stomach, and Carter, in turn, comes inside him. Brian has never slept with anyone without wearing a condom. To say he has never been fucked without one is also true.  
  
Everything about his life has transitioned from its station of pretend dangerous to full on walking a line of fire. He has given himself over to feeling and passion, to fulfilling the need to have his heart pump faster and blood run hot with excitement. Fundamentally, he knows that this arrangement--his job, the sex, the mechanics of it all are dark and dangerous and dirty, but he likes it, craves it like nothing else.  
  
So, he’ll let this slide.  
  
He lies on his back in the middle Carter’s posh bed with Carter still resting atop of him. His face buried in Brian’s chest. He can’t lie to himself. This will happen again and again.  
  
Because like Carter, he lives a life of no regrets. 

* * *

  
  
They make small talk as the lie in bed. Brian finds Carter’s history is a lot more interesting than he could have imagined. “I’m actually American, you know? My accent isn’t a put on.” Carter’s twang rolls across his words.  
  
“I wondered why you sounded like Miami’s lone cowboy.”  
  
“My dad is from here. He came from cattleman stock. He wanted to show his old man that he didn’t need his power or influence, so he started his own thing down in Argentina. That’s how he met my mother.” Carter smiles. “She was his secretary,” he says with the implication that history is capable of repeating itself.  
  
“I spent a lot of time bouncing between here and there. Finally ended up here.”  
  
Off of Carter’s tongue come the most obscene things in English, Spanish, French, and Italian. The one thing he always says without fail. “Mi sol.” When he breathes in the scent of Brian’s hair and holds him close as they come down from throes of climax.  
  
Brian can honestly admit that he has never felt like this before, truly alive and vibrating with currents of energy under the skin. He has been close. Every moment where he’s racing, engine pumping like an extension of his heart, those few weeks with Dom where this feeling like ripples on the ocean hides the awaiting swell of a tsunami.  
  
He knows that this is wrong, or not wrong, but bound to get him hurt. Carter is dangerous like handling a cobra through steel gloves, even with protection the possibility for pain still exists. He allows himself to be played, note by note, as Carter asks questions, small things about his life before and the picture of who he is forms from the hollowed out puzzle pieces of a boy he once was. Brian has never had a problem with revealing too much. Yet with Carter, all those boundaries, the rigid structure of the code he lives by, falls by the wayside. As Carter, like, his fingers crawl over Brian’s skin and experiment with its natural elasticity, Brian indulges in his surrender.  
  
Flexible becomes something more than an action, but a true state of being. In the weeks that follow, Carter’s bed becomes a second home and all the time spent there passes with speed and deliberate action, all attempts to make up for lost time and Brian rides out each moment like a wave. The crest lasts the longest and Brian’s back always curls, no matter what Carter is doing to drive him to distraction. He falls so hard over the swell, it seems truly possible that his breath will never return.  
  
For all that he wants not to, he loves it, enjoys it, and permits himself to grow drunker and drunker off of Carter’s attention. Thinking about the past before Miami becomes harder and harder every day.  
  
At night long after they are finished and the four hundred count bed sheets are dry once more, Carter reaches out and touches Brian. If Brian is addicted, then so is Carter. This thing between them is far from one-sided. It’s equally possessive and wanting. Carter’s blunt fingers trace the outline of his lips and stroke the interior like wet velvet. His fingers brush along the edges of Brian’s jaws, rolling over the swell of his cheekbones. They tickle as they walk over the shell of his ear. All the while Carter’s dark eyes look as mystified as Brian is spellbound by what is happening between them.  
  
Carter mouths words into the side of Brian’s neck. He entwines their fingers and clings with an excess of strength that dares Brian to continue to hold on. Brian surprises him every time and holds on just a wee bit longer. When Carter speaks in low tones, still light and sedate, perfect for the night, he weaves a storybook life. One that contrasts perfectly to Brian’s less than illustrious beginnings.  
  
Carter finishes one night, reliving some tale from his youth where like all teenage boys he had more balls than sense. Humid air breathes into the room, pregnant with ozone and the sweet scent of tropical flowers that cuts through the acrid haze of sweat and semen. Though spent, Carter still wants to explore. His lips drag over Brian’s mouth and down the slope of his neck and further across the planes of his chest. Pliant is the word of the hour.  
  
So when Carter finally asks, “What about you?” Brian emits a shallow breath that transforms into a restrained chuckle. Expecting some funny story or tale of a family tradition, Brian lays it out stark and clear for Carter in regards to his past. He is a man that has made many mistakes due to following a plan devised years ago as boy with too much energy and time to think, but never enough money or attention to make something of himself.  
  
“Just me. Has been for a while.” Basically, he tells Carter without so many words that there’s no one to miss him should he mess up, which goes completely unspoken. Carter never holds his past against him, but Brian does. He clings on to the mistake that is trying to be a cop and even more, failing to see Dom and the twice failing to have Dom see him.  
  
Carter regards him with flinty eyes, luminous nonetheless in the presence of sparse evening light. He tilts his head up and holds Carter’s gaze. His eyes say _I shit you not_ and among the list of all the things he should and would have said if given the time, this is one opportunity to finally say something true. “And I don’t regret this.” It’s the most sincere thing Brian has ever said.  
  
Carter’s answer is “good.”  
  
Funny, finding a second wind comes easily this time around.


	5. Five

Brian’s place in Carter’s bed becomes one of those unspoken things, whose very existence precludes any further secrecy. Ale can tell the moment things change and simply asks for details when Brian is ready. He feels his face heat and nods silently. Roberto and Enrique know better than to say anything negative. They realize it’s in their best interest to listen just a little more to Brian, even if Brian isn’t too sure they understand the reason why they should listen to him.  
  
Their lives settle into a facsimile of domesticity. They share a bed with two distinct sides, though the lines between each blur as they merge into single sprawled lump beneath the covers. Brian rises first, always, stretches and listens to the sounds of his bones shift and align. Carter sleeps on, already drifting into the warm spot that Brian has just abandoned. Even in sleep, he snores elegantly, sound emitted through his lips economically and subtly as he tries to retain his grip on the last vestiges of sleep.  
  
Brian slips on a pair of trunks and grabs a towel before heading down to the pool. Swimming is more sedate than surfing. Here, he can allow his mind to wander as his body becomes attuned to a set of repeated motions, forward and back as he moves across the pool. He prepares himself for the day and any challenge Carter may throw at him. His life these days really is exciting.  
  
The sun has fully risen when he steps out of the pool. Parrots caw overhead and palm trees rustle with each whistle of wind. It is a beautiful day, so very typical of Miami. It’s a standing order that he make coffee every day, which is almost the full extent of how much either of them uses the kitchen.  
  
Carter awakes somewhere between the middle to end of Brian’s morning ablutions. It’s a testament to the strength of a relationship when two people can ably share a bathroom without driving each other to murder. It should be less difficult for two guys, but with one as persnickety as Carter and the other as loose as Brian there are bound to be issues.  
  
But their relationship is charmed. There are words spoken, thoughts shared, laughter and sex, lots and lots of sex. Carter is one of two men in existence capable of making Brian feel like a case of whiplash is imminent. They rarely fight, because that is fundamentally bad for business. In the rare occasions when fighting is inevitable, everyone in their small circle knows and watches their steps like soldiers venturing into a mine field. Carter’s face clouds like summer thunderstorms and Brian’s eyes radiate cold electric fire.  
  
The flip side is the making up. Hot, rough, and dirty, it is all driven by the electric attraction that comes from the inevitable stare down. If they are lucky, they can reach the Carter’s office or better yet a bedroom. Usually they are not and have one more than one occasion managed to successfully freak Rosa out and cause a litany of rapid-fire Cuban curses to be rained down upon them. Carter bellows out unrepentant laughter, but he doesn’t stop. Not even once.  
  
Rocky showed up eighteen months into, for lack of better words, their affair. He’s a giant purebred Rottweiler puppy that is more horse than dog. Carter pretends to be pissed when Rocky leaps onto the bed and settles down just below his feet. He climbs north over the course of the night, eventually ending up with his big furry belly draped over either’s feet. Luckily, they are saved from the rank smell of dog breath.  
  
Rocky takes to trotting behind them wherever they go and makes it well and truly clear to all those that he comes across that are not within his very limited circle of interaction that he is not to be messed with. Carter is disproportionately pleased by this fact. Brian simply pats Rocky’s head and revels in finally having a dog of his own.

 

* * *

  
  
Over the course of months, Verone introduces him to a constellation of Miami’s richest and most influential people. Some have their power through hard work and savvy investments, others inherited wealth, while some have what they have from pursuits that are only marginally legal, if at all.  
  
His birthday always precede the anniversary of him taking the job. He figures turning thirty will be like any other birthday since he’s come to Miami, specifically since he’s come to work for Carter. A few drinks here, a dance with Ale there and the added experience of Carter wrapping his arm around him in public and smooching him on the temple.  
  
This time around he manages to be surprised. While they drink coffee and make their way through the box of guava and cream cheese pastelitos that Rosa brought for the occasion, Carter slides him a flat white box. Inside are a silver set of keys.  
  
“Keys. I like keys,” Brian says.  
  
Carter waves his pastelito around, smirking, “The question is to what?”  
  
The what is a black on silver Chevelle SS. 

It’s as beautiful as the day it rolled off the assembly line. Carter even springs for the street legal whitewall tires and a new NOS injector to compliment the modified electric fuel injection. It’s obvious that Tej has consulted him along the way, because there is no way that Carter would have been able to specify all the mods himself.  
  
The Chevelle sings a song that plucks at his heart. “Thanks,” he offers genuinely, followed by a kiss so deep the edge of his vision flares with stars.  
  
Carter licks his lips in reply, reveling in the super saccharine taste of guava pastry. “Happy birthday,” Carter says and means it.  
  
Brian marvels at the car as well as the sight of Carter savoring the aftertaste of Brian’s kiss. Anyone can give someone a car. A car like this--makes Brian realize that Carter is saying that he appreciates him more than just for his fine work and what they share goes beyond skin to skin contact.  
  
Carter knows Brian prefers low-brow food to the ritzy spots that Carter likes to be seen in. So a low key seafood grill off of the Miami River suffices for dinner before they head off to this week’s hot spot, Azteca on South Beach.  
  
The place is all fire, filled with wall to wall skin, hotties galore and enough potent drinks to leave him with a hangover for a few weeks. Carter gets them a private booth that partitioned by curtains. The spot offers a taste of seclusion in a room full of people and simultaneously attracts people like fireflies to a streetlight. Beautiful people flit in or around them, trying to become a part of their party, but they don’t know that it’s already full.  
  
Despite the music, they manage to talk, drink and generally have a good time. Brian occasionally scans the crowd as he usually does. His eyes have become more adept for finding trouble and all things suspicious in his times post having a badge than during his tenure as a cop.  
  
He spots her almost immediately.  
  
In a room full of beautiful people, she still manages to stand out. The simple fact is that her beauty is as natural as sunlight, all real with no surgical filler. Her almond eyes like living ebony watch him as well. She dances with the sensuality of primed seduction. She shows a lot of skin, cinnamon mocha limbs stretch and writhe in tune with the pulsing music. Her curves are perfect, strong and unending, winding like a road, and like an ice cold bottle of Coca Cola, he wants a taste. She’s all strong beauty with predatory dark eyes.

“Do you want her?” Carter whispers in his ear.  
  
Her eyes haven’t wandered from them for a second. It will be so easy to say “yes,” but then again, this could be a test. They have known each other for four years. Nearly three and half of them have been spent sleeping together almost exclusively. There have been girls; those of the more adventurous variety that suggested a two is better than one deal. Jumping from one sleeping partner to two is bit awkward, but sexy as hell when one gets into the right rhythm. Otherwise, there are no others that come between, not even on special occasions.  
  
Brian tilts his head like he’s pondering the idea deeply, “No,” he admits. “I’m good.”  
  
Carter’s tongue ventures around the rim of his glass to catch errant drops of scotch. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Absolutely.” The truthful answer is yes. But he can do without even in the physical sense. “Not unless you do.”  
  
“It’s not my birthday,” Carter replies sharply. She who remains nameless, but utterly enchanting seems to be the type that Brian has always imagines Carter to go for. Even though Carter is sleeping with Brian, the thought still manages to come up quite often when Brian’s mind is busy playing the always changing what-if scenarios.  
  
Brian tears his eyes away from her, “I’m actually satisfied with what I have.” And he is.  
  
“Are you?” Carter has taken to Corona as the only beer he’ll drink. “If I was to suggest you, me and her tonight as a one night only arrangement, would you still be uninterested?”  
  
Back to considering the proposition, he watches her move with the music. Her movements are so flawless, it seems that the rhythm must vibrate through her veins. So perfect. He’s so caught up in the hypnotic spell she casts that he almost misses the discordant movement of her lips. Her Lips moving out of time with the music, she clearly isn’t singing or talking to herself. Her words seem deliberate and sneaky as if she’s trying to hide them.  
  
Her gleaming dark eyes betray her. She’s so perfect that she’s a trap. She’s micced up.  
  
“Maybe,” Brian watches her dance eying them the entire time. Her attention strikes him as deliberate. It’s a feeling that he can’t shake off. “Though I’d prefer not waking up to the SWAT Team pouring through the doors tomorrow morning if we can help it.”  
  
Carter drags his eyes over her, this time with the intent of seeing what Brian does. “You think.”  
  
“I suspect.” Brian knows people. He can read body language like a bona-fide linguist. She’s angling for something and not in the typical gold-digger schemes for sustained wealth and comfort kind of way. She wants them to notice her.  
  
“I know so,” he amends without further explanation.  
  
He smiles and waves to her, wandering what her mission is exactly and which one of them she is supposed to bring down first.  
  
“What a birthday.” Brian smiles and toasts her with a lazy smile.  
  
Neither Brian nor Carter is capable of saying the words ‘I love you.’ Instead they each show their loyalty in unique ways. Carter sleeps with his arm around Brian’s middle every night, tucked flush against him with his face buried in Brian’s neck or hair. Those daily ass smacks are signs of love in their own way. Carter also has a thing for Brian’s hair, curling his fingers in the slightly longer than Brian would like curls at the base of his neck.  
  
Brian, in turn, knows how Carter liked things to be done. Carter is a bit OCD in regards to business and interacting. Carter is big on trust and Brian just came off a kick where he’d broken the trust of so many people. The ship where he can apologize and pick up, where he left off with his old life had sailed. Now he can only earn and keep someone’s trust from the start.  
  
He knows things about Carter. Observations that he doesn’t take for granted, like the way Carter likes his coffee or how much he hates onions. Carter appreciates the attentiveness. He’s with Carter enough to remember said things. Brian knows even Carter likes his car, even if he only says moderately insulting things about it. Carter likes to go as fast Brian does.  
  
Quickly, Carter’s associates learned to play nice with Brian. One muttered, “Puto” led one associate to a glorious beat-down after a social event on the Beach. He meant not to watch, but seeing Carter pull the guy aside and whale on him brought out some high school age flutter to his stomach. He is on a slippery slope and with Carter Verone by his side he is sliding farther and faster than he can imagine.  
  
For Brian, there hasn’t been anyone else for four years. In his mind, he might stray, but not often. It is painful when he does. Sure, Carter has his dalliances here and there, always women with dark eyes and dark hair. If ever Brian’s eye ever did stray, then he’s assaulted by the sound of Carter whispering in his ear. Five times, he has found himself looking at Carter over the shoulder of some would-be model and knew that what they were doing was too much.

* * *

  
  
Carter makes a few calls after that. One to his lawyer and the remainder to a few contacts here and there. Inside people that can give him the heads up if someone is trying to screw him. As Brian is buried pretty deep in Carter’s business, he knows that Carter manages to walk a fine line between unlawful and legit activity. He pays taxes, provides health insurance, and donates to local charities annually. On paper, at least, Carter is as clean as whistle. In every other aspect, his dealings are all definitely tinged in grey.  
  
It is Carter who casually brings up his mother’s new acquisition. A new yacht, apparently. One so sick that even she has to brag and showoff to her son.  
  
A few days later, they’re in Mar de Plata, Argentina. Brian doesn’t have anything to really compare it to. Carter says it’s like a slice of Europe along the coast of South America. Since this is Brian’s first trip to South America and he has never been to Europe, he just takes Carter’s word that what he says is true.  
  
The port is busier than Miami’s, more fishing mainly. The people they meet along the way to the port are loud and passionate; their Spanish tinged with Italian inflections that are confusing to a non-native Spanish-speaker’s ear.  
  
Carter laughs at Brian’s apparent bafflement of all the formal pronouns being slung around in general conversation. He adapts his favorite form of affection and draws Brian closer. He busses Brian’s straw-gold curls and grins around the words “Mi sol” before directing them to the right yacht.  
  
Claudia Silva de Ambrosio Verone doesn’t lie about her yacht. It’s well over a hundred feet and is the definition of floating opulence. Claudia hugs and kisses her son with genuine affection and makes the obligatory maternal comments about being too thin. She turns to Brian and quirks a brow at him. “Is he for me?” she asks, her voice is a husky aged purr. Humor fills her resulting smile.  
  
“Only if you want me to be,” Brian responds.  
  
The answer is one that she likes. Carter’s mother is slightly above average height, with dark hair and light eyes that speak volumes about her north Italian heritage. She has Elizabeth Taylor looks, beauty so regal is immutable across time.  
  
She is sharp and shrewd and within twenty minutes, Brian sees where Carter gets his business sense and his smile. She’s a generous host and makes frequent mentions of how much she wishes Carter would visit more. “Just like his father,” she tells him. Her English is colored by her underlying Spanish and Italian accents.  
  
In their impromptu vacation, they’ll sail from Mar de Plata to Buenos Aires. Senora Verone— _Claudia, please_ , she asks, makes sure that they are as comfortable as one can be on a six bedroom yacht with two pools, a jacuzzi, a media room, conference room, grand dining room, and a sunroom.  
  
They are well on their way to being liquored up when Claudia asks Carter, “Have you seen your father lately?”  
  
“No, Mama.” Brian finds it cute that Carter addresses her as Mama still. “Why?”  
  
The way her eyes narrow speak volumes. “His father has reached that time that all those American television psychiatrists love to talk about.”  
  
“What is that exactly,” Brian asks, totally curious.  
  
“Midlife crisis.” She enunciates like it is the worst of all evils. “He is talking about tattoos, motorcycles, and jumping out of planes.” She waves ineffectually. “I told him he has two weeks before I invade his little Texas fortress and slap some sense into him. Coño, he is too old to be going crazy.”  
  
Carter says nothing for a minute in the wake of his mother’s angry diatribe. “So, did he buy you this boat on his way to midlife crisis?”  
  
Unlike Carter, Claudia favored whiskey to scotch. “Of course not, between my cattle and my wine, we have had a wonderful year.” She looks to Brian. “Has Carter told you about his apellido?”  
  
A nickname? He smirks at Carter. “No, he hasn’t.”  
  
“My Carter has cowboy genes running through his blood through and through.” Her face bears the grin that generations of proud mothers have worn since the dawn of time. “I am surprised that he wasn’t born on top of a horse trying to wrangle a cow.”  
  
Brian smirks in kind at the thought, while Carter fails at hiding his mild embarrassment. “That would have been some delivery.”  
  
Her honey-jade eyes float over him, holding him steady like a proverbial tractor beam. “¿Dónde encontrarle?” Claudia asks without shifting her gaze from Brian.  
  
He feels like showing off. Before Carter can answer, Brian leans forward in his seat and replies, “Apóyelo en una situación complicada. Yo no puedo permitir Carter traer problemas a sí mismo o mi bar favorito.” His Spanish has always been functional at best, but life in Miami, surrounded by so many lilting and rolling dialects had caused him to upgrade his skills.  
  
“¿Sí?” Claudia’s eyes twinkle with laughter and suddenly the hard edge is gone. Some internal decision has been reached. “Me encántale.” She pats Carter’s leg not before inflicting a maternal brow raise. This is an early -learned life lesson in action. If you win someone’s mother over, then you’ve won them too. Usually, it goes for girls, now from experience, he sees it can go either way.  
  
“El gusto es mío,” Brian replies. The pleasure is truly his.  
  
Over the course of their lazy drift up to Buenos Aires, he learns much of the tale that is as epic in scope as Gone With The Wind and Casablanca minus the raging wars in the background. Claudia, even now, well seated into middle age has Classic Hollywood good looks and can still grab a man’s attention, be they young or old. As she tells it, her first meeting with Carter’s father is less than stellar, but there’s simply something about him, whether it’s his bravado or his American arrogance with his cowboy grace and suave confidence; she still doesn’t know to this day why she looked at him twice or for all their clashes and rebounds that they were able to get together and stay that way.  
  
What makes them, ultimately, stay together, she tells him as she tries to press a glass of champagne upon him is that they both understood exactly what the other wanted to get out of life. For him, he wants to keep up his family legacy, cattle and oil. A true Texan, she calls him. For her, life would be incomplete without the cows that graze over her family’s land or the horses they breed. She’s a born rider. She loves to go fast, she says, earning a secretive smile from Brian.  
  
They have that in common.  
  
By now, Carter has left them to their conversation. There’s always something business or otherwise capable of keeping him busy and his mother’s attention is so firmly rooted on Brian that his absence isn’t the least bit noticeable. Love, she emphasizes with a laissez faire gesture, is freedom without restriction and no compromise. She and John have lived in foreign places for each other, but never once losing sight over what they each have wanted.  
  
To that end, Claudia says she understands why Carter does what he does, even if she isn’t all too sure about the full extent of it. Life is for living and that includes experiencing all the passions and pains that come with the ride. John agrees with this, she tells Brian. But he still harbors anger and disappointment in Carter for his choices.  
  
As the sun sets, Claudia’s steady tone enumerates all the things that John had wanted for Carter. All the possibilities he saw for his future. A cattleman. An oilman. A doctor. A lawyer. A senator. He watches a look slide over her face, one that he’s seen more than a few times from Rome’s mother and his own. All good parents share the same innate desire for their children to succeed. Very few understand that success and happiness do not go hand-in-hand. Claudia does.  
  
“It’s about passion, Brian.” He hasn’t thought about his mother since he left the West Coast. Now, he wonders. His thoughts stray to her, to Rome’s mother, to the all but canonized Marie Toretto and wonders if they would have understood like Claudia.  
  
His hands dangle over the railing and his eyes follow the sun’s descent at the edge of the world. Even for a few days, he misses his dog, the sounds of his engines and the seductive purr that vibrates up the body. That word that is missing from his life prior to Miami has been found. “Yes,” he sighs and licks his lips, tasting the faintest traces of the southern Atlantic waters. “Passion is a must.”  
  
Later, he lies awake long after Carter has drifted off to sleep. The early word from a few friends in Miami is that things are looking up for them. There’s nothing concrete that the Feds can get either of them for. The locals can’t even get him on an unpaid parking ticket. They’ll be going home soon.  
  
The idea of calling Miami home doesn’t seem all that foreign anymore. So he lies awake thinking. Tonight, he doesn’t sprawl over the ridiculously high soft sheets. He lies on his back with his eyes tracing the arresting pockets of color in the faux-Venetian frieze above the bed. It looks like all those interchangeable pieces of art that he knows are from the Renaissance.  
  
Brian’s thoughts have always been order despite external chaos. They dip and lull like the waves of the ocean. He’s sure there’s a poem out there that describes just the way he feels. Should he feel strange at the fact that he’s lying in bed with Carter on the aforementioned mother’s yacht and is suddenly filled with thoughts of passion?  
  
He’s more than happy to know that Carter, and by extension, he too, will be okay when they return to Miami. It amazes Brian more that this situation should be more awkward, but it really isn’t. He’s literally a half-step away from being adopted by Claudia, which would make this justifiably weird. Though he’s not all in favor of having a conversation about their sleeping arrangements, he still thinks it’s pretty progressive that she automatically puts him in a suite with Carter that can easily rival the set design of Lawrence of Arabia.  
  
Carter sleeps on, smooth and undisturbed despite the drum roll of thoughts swaying in Brian’s head. Brian closes his eyes and dreams about long stretches of endless road. He is neither east nor west, but knows just as surely that he’s doing at least a buck ten, that the black shadow at the edge of his vision is a car matching his pace mile for mile. He doesn’t have to see the driver to know that it is the one person he wants most in the world.  
  
The hum of twin engines is the lullaby that sinks him under the waves of sleep. A smile lingers on his face in both the waking world and that of his dreams. 

 

* * *

  
  
When they return, Brian finds life is as it should be. It is a mix of business, expensive things that he can’t find a real use for, cars, occasional races, Rocky, and the bright miasma that permeates the air and drives them all to be weirdly productive.  
  
It is an intoxicating existence. One that pulses with passion.  
  
On one of those rare days where business is the last thing on his mind, Carter surprises him as he inevitably always manages to do. Brian is quite a sight, sprawled comfortably over a linen chaise lounge with Rocky content to lie beside the chair and sleepily absorb early afternoon sunshine. A shadow falls over him, making the world beyond his shades more opaque. He registers the familiar feel of Carter’s fingers twining through his curls, which isn’t at all unusual. The mango scented kiss that lands upon his forehead like a precious gift is. Sure, they are just about as domestic as the two of them can get; five years in and this is still the longest relationship either has ever had.  
  
He tilts his head up, catching a second kiss on the corner of his mouth. Carter’s lips are slick and the sharp scent of fresh mangoes clings to his lips. “What’s up?” he asks.  
  
There’s no hesitation on Carter’s part to invade Brian’s personal space. He sinks down on the corner of the lounger, forcing Brian to sit up for the moment. Rocky comes out of his light doze. His pink tongue darts out to lick Carter’s hand. It’s a testament to how much Carter has come to like Rocky, though he won’t speak the words, that he actually loves having the dog around.He reaches out and rubs Rocky’s thick black fur.  
  
“So,” Carter begins. He points to the ground and Rocky immediately heels. “You were right.”  
  
Brian tries to not act surprised. He watches the side of Carter’s face in an effort to read him, and Carter is extraordinarily blank and cool at the moment.  
  
Brian plays it cool. “You’ll have to tell me what I’m right about. There are just so many things that I could be right about.”  
  
Carter’s profile shifts away from him, moving about in ninety degrees towards the picturesque scene straight ahead. Waters blue-green due to the season and the lack of algal blooms are spread before them to what looks like the end of the world. Even from here, sitting on a luxurious version of a patio, Brian feels empathy for those wayfarers that looked out and saw a similar sight on ships and felt the indecipherable tingle of despair and hope, because the world truly looks like it is without end.  
  
Carter’s hands unbutton his jacket at least. The sleek sports coat bothers Brian way more than Carter. And knowing Carter, he’ll never admit to burning up beneath the heavy layers of clothing even if flames are shooting out from underneath. “Braga.”  
  
Oh. “Yeah.” Brian sees no need to question it. The argument responsible for starting this entire thing between them has never left his mind completely. It has always been one of those things that gets stuffed into a ‘Check on It Later’ file. Carter can throw a wicked punch when he’s angry, but so can Brian and after he made Carter walk away from doing any sort of business with Braga, Brian takes it upon himself to knock some sense into Carter just for suggesting they even meet with Braga and his cronies.  
  
“Was he too slick for his wannabe pimp juice?” Brian smirks. The small sound that comes from Carter’s throat doesn’t suppress the fact that Carter is on the verge of smiling, which is another skill that it seems Brian is one of the few who has.  
  
Carter tilts his head slightly, his eyes still locked on the ocean. “It’s going to make the papers soon, probably tomorrow or the day after. People are still trying to figure the details out.” Carter has always been an aficionado of the local newspaper, not for the hardest-hitting journalism, but the little tidbits that can always help locate items of interest. “Anyway, he took his little sideshow out to Cali and started moving major weight across the border.”  
  
Brian huffs out a small breath and like a sail with no wind, sags back against the chair. “That’s federal time. Serious federal time.”  
  
Nodding Carter says, “He decided to cover his tracks here and there with a little murder.”  
  
Of course, Brian’s interest is piqued. “Who?” He forgoes asking ‘anyone important,’ because that’s an absolutely redundant question.  
  
Now he is graced by Carter’s attention. Blue eyes uncovered to speak as clearly as Carter’s words. “Yeah, his drivers.”  
  
A mental scoreboard lights up, flashing and blaring despite the macabre announcement. The marquee nonetheless reads Brian—2, Carter—0. His senses never lie to him.  
  
“He pissed off the wrong person; they rolled on him and almost killed him from what I hear,” Carter adds, squinting at Brian from the brightness of the sun.  
  
Now Brian understands. “So that’s why we made a mad dash a few weeks ago?”  
  
“Partly, I thought it best to lay low.” He always thinks two steps ahead. “You can’t get questioned if no one knows where you are,” Carter explains.  
  
Brian fiddled with his sunglasses before pushing them up more with one lone finger. “Were we likely to get questioned?”he asks with a voice layered in winter cool. “You should have said something.”  
  
“There was nothing to say or tell.” Carter’s hand slips from Rocky’s head to Brian’s thigh. His fingers stroke the tawny skin so lightly that Brian’s thigh twitches in response, which is a very cat-like gesture. “I didn’t come here to fight.” All the while the soothing motion continues.  
  
“No?”  
  
“No, it’s not every day I try to be romantic and shit, but you’ve turned out to be a good goddamn investment.” Carter pauses like heavy words have moved to sit on his tongue. “Even if you’re blinding me,” he says before swiping at Brian’s too blond curls and then drawing him forward.  
  
Their eyes lock. Carter’s are unwavering from Brian’s; their breaths rising into the humid afternoon swelter. They sync up, flow in tandem as they are wont to do. There is no room for a smartass remark or a cocky smirk. This is a moment in a separate space in time. A conversation that can only occur through feeling and intuition. No words need apply.  
  
Like the feeling of Brian’s tires rising above the earth as he and Dom broke through the railroad crossing, he waits to see what happens next.  
  
Carter’s mouth opens, flutters and finally spills forth a coherent collection of sounds. “I like you, Dorado.” The tone is neither hard nor soft, just Carter in his clearest intonation.  
  
“I like you, too.” And Brian does. He really cares for Carter more than he ever expected to. The feeling doesn’t freak him out or leave him shaken up. It makes him hot, fills him with passion and he knows he’s on the edge of getting addicted. Scratch that, he is addicted.  
  
The hands in his hair resume their stroking. The humid air is full of billions of air molecules and the particles between them are charged. Natural attraction in its purest form. The current between them is something more than intangible like the heat of the sun or the lapping kiss of the ocean against the shore.  
  
He can easily blow what happens next off on a mild case of heat stroke or convection currents. When Carter leans in taking his mouth, the world blurs and explodes to white. Brian has never been passive, but in this moment, he can only follow. Follow behind Carter as he leads them into the cool darkness, as compared to glittering sunshine, into the house and up the stairs.  
  
What happens next is a first.  
  
Brian always gives. His hands, his mouth, his ass. Carter takes with his hands, mouth and cock. He pushes Brian inside their room and kicks the door shut behind them. Not that he really has to. Rosa is gone for the day; Enrique and Roberto are out doing whatever, and Rocky is lazily baking outside. They are an open secret, if ever there is such a thing.  
  
They can do hard or slow like everyone else, but there are times, like now, when the only option is to sit back and let Carter decide to direct them. Brian keeps up, kissing Carter like his life depends on it. Sucking on his bottom lip the way he likes. Rolling his tongue against Carter’s palette.  
  
Carter takes no heed of his own obsession with order by tossing the various pieces of his suit here, there, and all across the room. In a second, he’s naked. Pale muscles flexing and bunching as he straddles an equally naked and hard Brian. There’s no real foreplay, just pure and natural urgency.  
  
Like magic, Carter’s suddenly has lube in his hand and the wave of cold that falls over Brian tells him exactly how they’re going to proceed. It’s not often that they go this route, but when they do, he and his cock can’t help but enjoy it. Carter’s got a nice ass, firm, round and tight. He takes Brian after a couple of tries and vibrates softly as he gets more adjusted.  
  
Then, he’s off like a shot, riding Brian like a jockey in the Kentucky Derby. This is one of the few situations where Brian has become adept to not driving. Carter wants hard at breakneck speed; Brian can only follow.  
  
The low noises that Carter makes cause Brian’s balls to draw up. Carter goes back to sucking on his lips, biting his neck, kissing him so hard until his vision flashes with spots of white and black as oxygen-deprivation starts to take over.  
  
Every stroke down brings him closer to losing it. Yes, he can hold on for just a bit longer. He takes Carter’s cock in hand and jerks him off as he rocks back and forth on Brian’s lap. Then, there’s weightlessness and the hot pungent wetness of oblivion.  
  
Carter has made his point and Brian agrees wholeheartedly.  
  
Eventually, their positions reverse. Brian lays sprawled across Carter’s chest, caught between wakefulness and the warm security of unconsciousness. It’s comfortable to lie like this.  
  
“I’m done,” Carter says, his voice barely above the hum of the quiet.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I’m ready to walk away.”  
  
Brian lifts his head and rests his chin on Carter’s steadily rising stomach. “Why now?”  
  
Carter pinches a spot on Brian’s shoulder and smacks the spot in rapid succession. “Why not now?” he says at the sight of the face Brian has pulled. When Carter decides to wax eloquent, his voice takes on a starry quality that only suggests that Brian make commentary, but in truth, he only wants the accompanied silence to think out loud.  
  
He sighs, pulling Brian closer. “I’m a man with…a handful of moral fiber in a business where that might be un poquito too much. Sometimes a man thinks about what he wants out of life. Isn’t that why you came this way?”  
  
It is.  
  
“There will always be someone like Braga, who will need help and I may not be willing to give it. That makes things difficult.” Carter’s hand has stilled over Brian’s arm and has taken a more firm hold. The longer he talks the more his grip tightens, and Brian says nothing, content to listen as Carter lays out his exit strategy. “I’m sure ‘no’ won’t be an acceptable answer. I’m a business man and a thief; I am what I am.”  
  
Just like Brian is a racer who pretended to be a cop and has found himself as something completely different, and finally is the person he’s meant to be.  
  
Brian can hear the steady thud of Carter’s heart beneath his head and presses deeper against the vibrations that rumble throughout his chest as he speaks. “I plan to enjoy my freedom and live to old age.”  
  
Just the idea makes Brian itch for a cigarette. He has never been one to fantasize about growing old. The fact that Carter does makes Brian itch like the first time skin is introduced to wool.  
  
He feels Carter shift again, coiling up to sit up somewhat and stare down at the top of Brian’s head. “You ever been to Texas?”  
  
Brian shifts up to catch Carter’s eye. “Drove through it to get here.”  
  
“Since you like to go fast, I’d love to see what you can do on a horse.”  
  
“Me on a horse?” Brian smirks and exhales a deep exasperated breath. He’s gotten used to Carter’s outside of the box thinking. “I do like to go fast...” He doesn’t want to break his neck, but he likes the idea of a challenge. “We’ll see,” Brian offers in exchange for a kiss long enough to reignite his system like a tank of Nos.  
  
Carter breaks the kiss and tosses him a slanted look before going in for another. He darts his tongue out and entices Brian’s to play, to wrestle, and suck. The need to breathe causes them to separate, but their hands don’t stray far from skin. “So we’re done,” Carter says, looking to Brian for further acknowledgement.  
  
A seductive slide of a hand here, a leg shifting there, and Brian pulls himself flush against Carter. This is an invitation in the secret language that they have each mastered in speaking to the other. All intuitive like downshifting or slipping into second. Brian and Carter share conversations, where the words unspoken say the most.  
  
Brian’s acquiescence comes in the form of pushing Carter back on the bed. He crawls over the barrier of Carter’s thighs to straddle his lap.  
  
“One more and we’re gone,” Carter decides. He follows the path that Brian’s fingers take as they venture up the center of stomach to his chest. Brian has blunt lean fingers that look good against the paler hue of Carter’s skin. Brian’s movements don’t falter at the sound of “one more,” instead they start backtracking downwards past his navel and to his cock.  
  
Brian takes him up with his hand and works him up with just the right amount of pressure. Brian’s palm is hot and slick with sweat; it jogs up and down on Carter’s shaft in a rhythm that’s counterpoint to the heated staring contest between them. This is old hat trick of Brian’s, looking elsewhere while diving headlock into something bigger and far more serious, like on-coming traffic or handjobs after proposals.  
  
The need to come builds with each sweeping stroke and neither has yet to break their stare. The grip around him tightens when Carter needs it most. Yeah, intuition, perception, attraction, whatever this thing between them can be called. He likes—appreciates that Brian can read him just so.  
  
“One more,” Carter promises.  
  
And it is just that-a promise.  
  


* * *

  
  
**Now**  
  
Cut to five years later, to a new lifetime crafted by Brian’s commitment to having a new life. He’s essentially married to his job and to his boss, with a Chevelle SS, and a Rottweiler named Rocky, to prove it. It was only after they started sleeping together that Verone became ‘Carter.’ Sleeping together was phrasing their situation lightly. They’ve known each other for five years. Have been sleeping together for four and a half.  
  
“You know what you are?” Carter purrs above him.  
  
Brian smirks, “A tease?”  
  
“Sometimes, but no. You’re something special….Someone special.”  
  
“Carter…” Brian is at a loss for words and lately when that occurs, it’s usually Carter’s doing.  
  
Carter smiles, pure and cocky, completely self-confident in how he feels. His head dips low and his lips trail over the stubbly line of Brian’s jaw and the inclining slope up to his mouth. “You’re perfect,” He says in quiet seriousness.  
  
“To you.” The maybe hung tenuously like dust motes suspended in air.  
  
Carter’s lips brush over Brian’s, sluggish and hot, and entirely bent on their purpose of exploring already familiar territory with the possessive flair of one who owns it. “For me.”  
  
They never say _I love you_ , but it’s implied in moments like this. He’s never liked feeling trapped before, but lying beneath Carter with his body caught between the cool sheets and the steady warmth of Carter’s naked skin, he realizes that some forms of captivity are necessary and absolutely enjoyable.  
  
Brian likes Carter. Some small part of him might even love him when he wasn’t thinking logically and allows himself to believe that their situation was different than what it actually is. Given that after Carter forced him to move-in with him by using the argument that it was safer and easier to get to work, Brian knows that this is exactly where he is supposed to be.  
  
The ‘one more’ that Carter has been talking about has so many parts, it may as well be a five- hundred piece jigsaw puzzle. For all Carter’s inherent intelligence, this new plan, leading up to ‘one more’ is absolutely poised for massive fuck-up proportions, if it goes sideways.  
  
Seriously, diamonds and coke.  
  
A losing combination that fills federal prisons left and right.  
  
Walking away is the only precautionary measure that leaves Brian equal parts flustered and grudgingly understanding. That scene in the bathroom has been leading up to this meeting. One that Brian isn’t terribly interested in the least. The tail-end of the plan involves driving from point C with the aforementioned diamonds to point D, where an ex-contact of one of Braga’s intermediaries has left a case with several, more than two hands worth of coke. Thus introducing stupid and dangerous into the equation; both variables which Carter has designated as reasons for Brian not to be the driver on this one.  
  
Another experienced driver is what he says they need, which riles Brian up. Deciding they need another driver is like benching Michael Jordan in order to play some no-name player. Not that he thinks he’s the Michael Jordan of racing. Well, at least he is in Miami.  
  
The Ice Man Cometh and Goeth, they say.  
  
Right now, the Ice Man is pissed.  
  
Brian stands out on the deck with hands tucked into the pockets of his white linen pants. Today, he has to forgo a suit. One, because it’s ninety degrees with nearly one hundred percent humidity. Two, meeting a bunch of prospects doesn’t require a suit. Three, this is Carter’s show and not his, so he’ll let him do all the heavy lifting for a change.  
  
Roberto and Enrique are bringing them here. Like any other super-secret club, there’s an initiation and this one is more than a perfunctory driving test. The guys- drivers, as Suki and Ale, are apt to remind him about the ever- increasing numbers of females drivers and thus the need for a gender neutral title, will be here in a matter of minutes.  
  
Carter’s planning to make them work to get into his good graces. Fetching his cigars will be just that, an opening shot to get on the inside. It almost reminds him of meeting Dom and crew at the first race outside of seeing them at the store. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll keep their mouths shut when Carter opens his package.  
  
Brian imagines Rome’s response, which would fall along the lines of apeshit crazy, if he has to prove himself by fetching some cigars. It’s easier to watch the ocean and the various boats that sail across the picturesque blue waters that wait for the tryout to start.  
  
He hears Carter approach before he sees him. He knows even without the aid of his senses that should he turn around Carter will be the picture of GQ smooth despite the oppressive heat. “Enrique called. They’re on their way.”  
  
“I know that makes you happy.”  
  
Carter cares little about personal space. His arms slide around Brian’s waist, drawing him back against Carter’s front. Hooking his chin over Brian’s shoulder, he whispers in Brian’s ear, “That should make you happy, too.” The hold doesn’t relent. “One more and we’re gone. We flip the stones and the blow and we’ll have more than enough until old age.”  
  
He pauses. Carter’s roman nose trails along the strong line of Brian’s neck, fulfilling that primal need to sniff one’s own. “We’ll hit Texas and see the old man. Get you on a horse just once and then we’ll find something else to do.” His lips form a smile against Brian’s skin. “Plus, Mama could stand to see your ugly face again.”  
  
“She likes my face more than yours,” Brian replies.  
  
Carter chuckles, a whiskey-rough explosion of sound. “Get real, Dorado.” They share a moment of quiet reflection where they just try to comprehend the simply awesome thing that is the ocean. The embrace breaks at the sound of Rocky’s barking. “Come on; it’s show time.”  
  
He can hear the engines even in the back. His mind goes to work on constructing the cars from the sounds of the engines alone. He calls two foreign rice rockets and two of Detroit’s finest. There’s nothing like a good Hemi to eat up the road. Like that, he was thinking of the Charger.  
  
He doesn’t turn to see their collection of prospects until he hears Carter’s bawdy welcome of “Gentlemen.” In a two-second sweep of the group, he identifies two rejects from Van Halen, a narc, and a heart attack.  
  
Heat stroke is not the cause of this living apparition before him, nor would any other normal convention generate such a perfect imitation of Dominic Toretto. Closing his eyes, Brian counts to three before squinting and scrutinizing the group again. There’s no doubt that his first assessment is true.  
  
Dominic Toretto is here, in the flesh, vying to do a job for Carter Verone.  
  
Jesus Christ. That icy cool that he’s known for just thaws into nothing, steam perhaps, and he just stares. It’s as if some unseen line reels him towards the group. His steps falter not when Carter introduces him, but the moment Dom’ eyes catch his, he becomes aware of every natural force on this planet acting as one.  
  
With Dom, it’s always been about gravity and maybe a little magnetism, if he wants to be more precise. Carter’s voice is suddenly so distant, despite him standing within inches of Brian. He understands the act of being star-struck now, because watching Dom’s eyes darken like charred incense narrows the scope of his world down to them. Everything else is marginal and even Carter’s voice rings out from the edges of the infinitely far periphery.  
  
When Carter says, “You each get an address,” Brian moves like an automaton, giving each guy the slip of paper with the location of the finish line.  
  
Dom plucks the paper from his fingers. “Long time no see, O’Conner.” Every inch of Dom radiates strength, his eyes included. They pin Brian in place for the moment.  
  
An infinite combination of words could be assembled to roll off Brian’s tongue. Any of them will do, but he’s almost rendered mute. The raspy “Same” doesn’t even sound like him.  
  
He forces himself to move again, shifting his eyes away from Dom and to the narc so obvious, he only needs a neon sign to make his presence complete. The fact that he’s here is not only bad, but brings up that well developed fear that this play is fucked from the moment go.  
  
The narc can’t hide the flicker of intelligence, that subtle spark of recognition that lights up his eyes at the sight of Brian. He knows who Brian is. Whether they called him a rogue cop or an operative gone native, Brian recognizes that gleam in the narc’s eye for what it is. He’s doing to take them all down.  
  
Brian moves back to Carter and pretends to sweep the group again. Someone has done their homework, he supposes, and they put a ticking clock over his and Carter’s heads. This setup has the stink of the Feds all over it. Not that the locals wouldn’t want to get in on the action.  
  
“Go,” Carter says.  
  
Carter’s hand slips back into Brian’s hair the moment four sets of tires peel out of the gate. His face is alight with a radiant smile and Carter seems, despite all the gloom and doom Brian sees looming over their heads, happy. That in no way means that he’s less perceptive. “You know beefy and bald?”  
  
 _We’ve got a history_ , Brian thinks wistfully. “Yeah, I know him from L.A.”  
  
Carter’s ministrations slip down to his neck. He’s become even more tactile as of late and Brian truly appreciates it. “Then my money is on Big to win the contract.” _Don’t be so sure_ , Brian thinks.  
  
He tilts his head back to see Carter just a bit better. Their eyes meet and the emotions behind each set are genuine, light and sparkling, alive and electric the way life has only been for him when moving at speeds where the world blurs.  
  
There are two sets of principles guiding him at the moment. One is that he can’t leave Carter holding that bag on this one and two, he’s not sure if he wants to anyway.  
  
It’s Brian’s turn to think of a real exit strategy. One that gets them both out of this mess intact.  
  
But first, he asks, “How about Mexico first, then Texas? I hear they’ve got great beaches.”  
  
Carter draws him close and kisses his temple, laughing to himself. He doesn’t let go of Brian and Brian doesn’t try to slip away. “You want beaches?” He asks incredulously. “We’ve got plenty of beaches already.”  
  
A Mexican beach guarantees freedom and the possibility of frosty Coronas with a Pacific or Gulf view. “You can never see enough beaches.”  
  
He’ll save them both if given a minute to think of just how he’ll do it. Carter won’t know what he’s done, but he’ll be glad that Brian has. If he gets a quarter mile, he’ll take miles of space too. Everyone will get what they want, what they need.  
  
Brian O’Conner has finally found faith. “You’ll see, Carter.”  
  
And he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Pendejo_ -asshole  
>  _Cabrón_ -dick  
>  _Sucia_ —feminine version of dirty. As a noun, it is slang for ho, slut, or easy.  
>  _Medianoche_ \- a type of Cuban sandwich  
>  _Parajo_ \- Bird, slang for fag/faggot.  
>  _Puto_ -Faggot  
>  _Coño_ \- Damn  
>  _Apellido_ \- name/nickname  
>  _Su pajaro tiene cojones_ \- Your faggot has balls.  
>  _Apóyele en una situación complicada. Yo no podría permitir Carter traer problemas a sí mismo o mi bar favorito_ \- I helped him in a complicated situation. I couldn’t allow Carter to bring problems to himself or my favorite bar.  
>  _Me encántale_ \- I like him.  
>  _El gusto es mío_ \- The pleasure is mine.  
>  _Dónde encontrarlo-_ Where did you find him?  
>  _Pastelito_ \- a type of flaky pastry. It can have a sweet filling or a meaty  
> filling.  
>  _Dorado_ -literally means golden, but can be used as a nickname for a blond/blonde


End file.
